A World More Full of Weeping
by Sagga Bott
Summary: Baby ducks don’t do well in prisons especially not pretty blond ones. How much of his incarceration and the events leading up to it are House’s fault? How much does House think are his fault? Post ‘No Reason’. ChaseOMC, combos of Chase, House, Wilson.
1. Prologue

**_A World More Full of Weeping_**

Chapter rating: PG-13

Summary: Baby ducks don't do well in prison, especially not pretty blond ones.

Disclaimer: The House MD characters are not mine. I'm just playing with them. They'll be returned…eventually, not in good condition but that can hardly be blamed on me!

Author's Note: First House-fic. This will be slash just to let you know. The rating will be higher in later chapters.

**Prologue**

He'd come with the intention of mockery. Y'know, a couple of barbs here and there. He hadn't been sure if he'd go the obvious 'dropping the soap' route but when would he ever have a chance like this again? One of his fellows was in jail. Not the black one. He'd already been incarcerated so that was nothing new. And it wasn't the girl. He couldn't imagine girl prisons being that bad anyway. No, it was the youngest one, the foreigner –and charged with a double murder no less.

Murder seemed like a stretch. Was Chase really capable of something like that? House thought it would take guts, conviction, passion and stupidity. In his opinion Robert Chase was lacking in all four.

Well maybe he wasn't totally gutless. The bruise at the left corner of his mouth and the one under his eye indicated that the blonde had been in a fight –and only three days since his arrival. What had House rethinking his opinion however, were the bruises and cuts on the pale white knuckles. Somewhere deep inside a part of Greg smiled that Chase had given as good as he got. The rest of him however was frowning.

The taunts and jibes had died in his mind before he could even think of the most dramatic order to verbalize them –it's all about timing. The tired young man who sat down before him, all expression closed off to the world, was unfamiliar but somehow House knew that it had always been lurking behind the calm demeanour he associated with the young doctor. He knew without any evidence that this was the face that saw Robert through his mother's untimely death to alcohol and the media blitz that surely followed. Rowan Chase, House wondered if he had ever felt guilty when he saw this expressionless mask. He knew the now deceased Doctor must have seen it, maybe blamed himself for it.

No matter how Robert felt about him, Rowan was his father and father's, even absent ones, could always manage to cut into sons the deepest, whether they knew it or not. Chase Sr.'s unrelenting, overshadowing confidence, provided an understanding of where Chase's quiet stubbornness had been wrought.

Hopefully he was stubborn enough to make it through Trenton. This New Jersey Prison had been the sight of a prisoner riot in 1952, when finally too many of the scum of the community where concentrated in the walls. Greg didn't imagine that the prison population had improved at all over the years.

A glance around the meeting area confirmed his suspicions. The cons were easy to pick out –thank you standard grey shirt and grey pant ensemble –but it wasn't just the clothes. Body language was always the other half of the story. If he had enough time he reckoned he'd be able to tell how long each on of them had been in the joint for and to what step of the prison social ladder they clung. Chase, obviously, was at the bottom. Fresh meat would always start there. That's a given.

He hadn't given it much thought two days ago though; when Foreman had towed an outwardly reluctant diagnostician to the Trenton correctional facility to meet with the third musketeer. He'd been unimpressed by the whole structure. He was hoping for the cliché prison: electric fences, guard towers, search lights and the like. Maybe if he came back at night, he'd thought. But then they'd been put through the visitation procedure and he'd lost most of his good humour.

Foreman had weathered it all with nothing more than a few rolled eyes and his typical expression of arrogance. That most of the guards thought he was probably coming to see his drug dealing, or maybe murdering, friend or brother didn't faze him. He endured the looks with nothing but silence, hostile though it had been. And when the staring contest with one particular bastard of a corrections officer had ended (Foreman as the victor) they'd finally made it into the large, pale greyish room.

Metal tables bolted to the floor with four similarly trapped metal chairs were all the furnishings afforded to the meeting area. There was of course the single chair in front of metal cage for particularly dangerous criminals but nobody would look at Chase, charged with a double murder or not, and think that they'd need protecting from him.

That day Robert had been edgy and antsy when he met them. There was a touch of panic to it and House hadn't held his tongue. He made his callous comment and he'd expected the glare from Chase but not the one from Foreman. The dark man had ignored the surly Doctor for the rest of the meeting focussed solely on Chase and he actually did seem…concerned? House had filed that little puzzle away for later.

Mostly Foreman had given Chase advice. Some of it seemed pretty obvious in House's opinion but he knew that sometimes it was the little things that had the biggest consequences.

"Get your hair cut." It had been an order, not a suggestion. Chase had stilled his fidgeting and looked directly in the fathomless eye of his older co-worker and after a few seconds nodded. The fidgeting began again after that little exchange and House had given in to the urge to hit the Aussie with his cane. Not hard but hard enough to be more than annoying.

Today, there was no fidgeting. Sharp blue eyes had noticed early the tremors that racked the slender frame. The dark under the previously vibrant blue-green eyes indicated a lack of sleep and when an inmate passed by and paused just minutely at Chase's back he knew there was a good reason for it. The lips of the tanned and tattooed man moved, delivering a low taunt to the new recruit to Trenton. Before anything could be said in return the man was walking away a smirk on his face. House glared after him. Useless though it was, it made that petty part of him feel better.

He couldn't make Chase feel better, couldn't take away this whole sorry situation. And he wasn't they type to comfort. His attempt resulted in his left hand resting on the cold tabletop two inches from Chase's, curled in a tense fist. It wouldn't take much to just inch his hand closer, grasp the other one and through a friendly, or at least a not-hostile touch, provide a modicum of solace.

An announcement through the PA informed everyone that visitation was coming to an end soon. House and Chase didn't move. House had resolved silently upon seeing Chase that he would stay for the maximum amount of time possible. Foreman had forced him to do the same thing two days ago. At the time he thought it was unnecessary but presently he knew it was all he could offer. Here in the visitation centre Robert was safe.

He'd sent Dr. Chase to prison once before. When the death row inmate had become mysteriously ill, Chase had been the one sent to check out where the patient lived. And he was right, Chase did have a pretty mouth and in Trenton it had garnered him the attention of the other inmates.

His dulled eyes shifted at every unexpected sound, now well versed in picking up on approaching footsteps, figuring out how many were coming, and from the sound of their walk what there intention was. It kept him safe but the net was closing tighter around him. He had no allies inside and with a face and body like his nobody was willing include him in their posy unless they got something for it, at least not while he was in such high demand.

His reprieve would last only twenty minutes more. House silently observed the others inmates wondering briefly about their situations, wondered if any of them had been falsely accused. He knew that Chase hadn't killed anyone. He may not be a priest but not even House could turn Chase from choirboy, former seminary school attendee, to hardened criminal. Well maybe he did get them to break the law but B&E wasn't even on the same map as homicide. And that had been the only way Dr. House had ever thought he'd see any of his minions behind bars, caught breaking into a patients home. He would have laughed. Sure it technically would have been his fault but he would have explained, would have socked Cuddy and Stacey on the cops and gotten his followers released if only so he could mock them continuously and not just during visitation hours. This situation was much different.

This wasn't directly his fault. It was a stretch to say it was indirectly his fault. You couldn't say it's your mother's fault you die because she gave birth to you. So how Wilson had managed to guilt him into coming here today to visit Chase in the first place still wasn't quite clear. It was just an email. He wouldn't have even seen it if Cameron hadn't been checking his mail again. Just a short message, threatening him and that had been weeks ago, after he'd been shot twice, and after Chase had been poisoned, but before the charges were brought against him, before bail was denied.

It said something along the lines of making him suffer. He hadn't actually read the whole thing. James did and hounded him for days about who could have sent the message, almost called the cops until Greg made him feel so silly for even considering it that he dropped the subject.

So perhaps this was how his e-mailer was going to try and get back at him, through Chase. He would have thought it absurd but he was the first to admit (only to himself) that he'd reacted badly when Foreman had gotten sick from their patient. It had been just as bad, if not worse, when Chase had been poisoned. The poison meant for him but ingested by the Australian. Anyone watching closely enough would have discovered an easy way to torment the surly head to the diagnostics department. Attack the people he kept around him, the only people in the world he allowed himself to care about or feel responsible towards.

It was a particularly sensitive nerve that had been hit when the target, accidentally or not, was Chase and with his weakness exposed, they were getting what they wanted. House had pulled every favour he had and some he didn't trying to help his Australian underling. He'd put his issues with Stacey aside, asked her to find Chase the best criminal attorney available. When he'd landed in prison he'd called the mob guy whose brother he'd saved, asked him to get his buddy's on the inside to keep Chase safe. He'd gotten no direct response but by the looks of it that favour hadn't gone through.

Back then the true gravity of the situation hadn't hit him, not like it bombarded him now.

A silent sigh passed his lips and he hunched a little further on the uncomfortable chair. Chase still sat in the adjacent chair one hand resting against his forehead as he leaned heavily on the table. Though safe for now his mind was back in the cellblock, planning how he was going to get his food, go through the commissary and get back to his cell without being attacked. It was always tricky and he didn't have many tricks left.

"Thirty-one year old male presents with high fever, rash and ataxia. Nothing in his record or family history that would point to a chronic or genetic illness but he had an appendectomy a week earlier." House's soft words broke the silence that had been between them since Chase had sat down. Silence they had both been fine with except that House thought Chase could use a distraction.

It took several seconds for Chase to respond. "How high's the fever?"

"One-oh-two point four."

"Any meds?"

"Not for you."

"The patient," Chase corrected without missing a beat. The familiar banter and the puzzle were welcomed distractions.

"Took two asprin before coming the hospital. Said he had a headache."

"You don't believe him."

"I don't believe anyone."

"You must live in a strange world."

"Yeah, reality is like that."

A slight smile tipped the corners of Chase's mouth up but his eyes remained dull and focussed on the dingy white table. House was somewhat pleased that he'd managed to lighten Chase's mood somewhat but it was only temporary.

"Could be an infection."

"Like the side of a barn," House intoned. Chase didn't follow. "Broad."

He shrugged one shoulder. "Strepticocal Toxic Shock syndrome."

House tilted his head to the side in the manner that said he was either impressed with the obscurity of the diagnosis or unimpressed with it. It was hard to tell with him. "That's usually reserved for women with tampons."

"Or anybody who had an open wound. The tampons one is staphyloccus aureus bacteria."

"You sure know a lot about tampons. Sure you're name wasn't Roberta at some point?"

Whatever response was forthcoming was cut off by he deliberate collision of another inmate with the younger man. The incident attracted the notice of a nearby guard but deeming it an accident he ignored it and continued to survey the assembled people. From his vantage point he couldn't see the inmates hand slip "accidentally" down Chase's side and to his crotch as he tried to stay upright. The whole thing lasted about three seconds from stumble to collision to grope to escape –no time to react with anything other than a punch, which wasn't advisable.

From his position House saw everything, including the humiliation and impotent rage on the blond man's face. All the work he'd done to relax Chase had been undone. The anger faded away leaving a brief glimpse of fear that Chase tried to cover with his hands. When he pulled them away all expression was gone again. He was mentally prepping himself to go back in there. Visitation was almost over –maybe they had a minute more. House stayed until the end.

He'd come with the intention of mockery. He never thought he'd leave without warning the Aussie not to drop the soap. He would because although he was cruel sometimes, rude almost always, there were some things, some possible, and others now all too probable dangers and tragedies that he didn't deride. Death was one, rape was the other. In a few minutes Chase would be facing the possibility of both. And it wasn't the expression on Chase's face, or the lack there of, nor was it the drab though at least matching prison issue clothing that hung too enticingly off his slender but toned frame. It was one small detail, something that most people wouldn't notice on a normal day unless exceedingly bored. Somehow it managed embody or at least make real to House the true danger Chase was in. It brought him closer to the whole ordeal, had him loosing his perspective.

The blonde strands, shimmering an ethereal gold even in the harsh fluorescent lights were in disarray, testament to the nervous tick of a hand running through it too often. But what caught his eye most of all wasn't the need for a comb. The hair he'd made fun of, the hair he'd sometimes envied, the hair he'd wanted to run his hand through just to know what it felt like, the long locks were no more. Left behind were uneven strands that from the top of his forehead didn't make it down to his brow.

Foreman had probably hoped it would make Chase look tougher and not as pretty but to House he just looked young. Too young to be here and far too young to be here alone. Somehow all his worry was brought to the forefront by the absence of a staple that was so very essential to his image of Chase. It was gone, the first casualty of this, his incarceration.

He'd cut his hair.

**End Prologue**

This segment actually occurs much later in the story. I don't know why I thought to start it here. shrugs My bad, I guess. Anyway, I just thought I'd post the prologue before the season premiere. I might get chapter one out over the long weekend. No guarantees. I still have to split the story into chapters and finish the later parts off. Hmmm. So much to do.

Sagga…


	2. Chapter 1

A World More Full of Weeping

Chapter Rating: PG-13

Summary: Baby ducks don't do well in prisons especially not pretty blond ones. How much of his incarceration and the events leading up to it are House's fault? How much does House think are his fault? Case-fic, Post 'No Reason'. Chase/OMC, combinations of Chase, House, Wilson.

Disclaimer: The House, MD characters are not mine. I'm just playing with them. They'll be returned…eventually, not in good condition but that can hardly be blamed on me!

Author's Note: This is going to be a pretty long story, a lot happens so I hope you'll bear with it. About the medical mysteries, I tried to make it as accurate as possible because as much as I like the 'House being a jerk' part of the show, I really like the medical part of the show too. I've used a lot of sources, so hopefully anybody with a medical background won't be too appalled by that aspect of the story. Enjoy!

**Chapter 1**

Three months earlier

Dr. Robert Chase walked into the patient's private room and wasn't surprised to find Dr. Allison Cameron also residing. She sat facing the prone man, a book hanging precariously from her hand. Her head was tilted forward, chin resting against her chest, fast asleep. Robert sighed silently and let his eyes glance to the older man of whom she was clearly so worried about. His eyes narrowed slightly and a slight smirk pulled at his lips but he wiped it away and approached Allison.

"Hey," he said softly and gently shook her. She jerked awake dropping her book. Prepared for such a reaction Robert plucked it from its descent. "You need to get some rest at home." She'd rarely left the hospital for the past three days while the patient was in the chemically induced coma. If she wasn't in the room, she was wandering the corridors or staring morosely at the spot in the conference room where their boss had been gunned down.

She glanced first to the bed and then to Chase. "I just want to be here."

"I know but you have to take care of yourself too. He's going to be fine."

Allison looked back to the bed. The surgeon had told her the same thing, so had a nurse, which was strange considering she was a doctor and knew more about his situation than she did, but the reassurance had helped. Not enough to keep her away from Greg House's side for more than a few hours on a few occasions but it had helped.

"Alright. Just let me know if anything happens."

You'll be the first person I call, Robert thought sarcastically. She'd agreed to go so easily that he wasn't willing to risk voicing his comment. Plus she didn't really look up to taking any sarcasm. Cameron glanced over her shoulder a few times on the short trip from her chair to the door. Chase pretended not to notice and began checking Dr. House's stats while making some notations in the patient file he'd retrieved from the holder on the wall.

When finally she was gone, no longer peering through the transparent walls of the room, he spoke. "She's gone now. You can stop pretending." He didn't look up from the file.

"Has she been there the whole time?" House asked with a voice that wasn't raspy enough to make Chase believe that he'd just recently woken up.

"Since you came out of surgery. She was really worried."

"And you weren't?"

Chase smiled. "I know you're too stubborn to die." He turned to face the patient and asked, "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been shot." His eyes seemed a little droopy and he was a little paler than usual but Chase attributed that to the trauma of his wound and then the trauma of surgery.

Chase leaned over the bed to shine pen light into one blue eye and then the other. The patient squirmed, as they tend to do, but Chase held the eye open with his other hand long enough to gauge the pupil response. "Any specific complaints?"

"Yes. Stop shining things in my eyes," House snapped. Chase just shook his head. Doctors always made the worst patients.

He watched intently as House brought his left hand up to rub his irritated eyes. The motion was slow but steady.

"Anything else?"

"Just the pain in my neck, the pain in my side and the pain in my ass." He lowered his hand and raised his eyes to meet the younger doctor's.

"Cheeky." Chase let the barb roll off his back like he always did. He considered doing the neurological exam but he didn't feel like listening to the sarcastic comments they would produce. He'd leave that to Foreman. He was the neurologist after all and it would give him a viable excuse to visit House like Rob knew he wanted to.

"Time for a stroll around the nurses station," he announced. It was common to have patient out of surgery take a short walk to renew circulation to the extremities and prevent clots from forming. And given the problem a clot in his leg had caused House before Chase thought it was a wise precaution for this particular patient, even if he'd have to listen to a stream of curses and insults.

In fact they'd already begun.

Chase tuned back in right around the part where House was disparaging his ancestry. "Charming. Get up."

"I'm not going all the way out there!"

"Hyper-bowl, hyberball-"

"Hyperbole!"

Chase snapped his fingers in exaggerated enlightenment. "That's what it's called," he said in mockery of the same act House had given Chase and the others on numerous occasions. His smile vanished and he became serious again. "We just have to make it to the door and back. Get up."

House glared but conceded. Chase retrieved the cane from the corner of the room and handed it to House. Though the older man quashed the urge to hit Chase with it the idea was easily read in the ice-blue eyes.

"Where's the guy I have to thank for this?" House asked as he pressed the button to slowly lean the head of his bed up.

"Another room. Security shot him but he'll make it."

"Wonderful."

Chase ignored the comment and helped him up, much to House's annoyance but he couldn't do it on his own. "What about Mister Swollen Tongue?"

"Allergic reaction."

House rolled his eyes, somehow disappointed that the patient had something so boring. His attention was soon far from Mr…Mr…whatever swollen-tongue-guy's name was. He had to focus on staying upright as trying to walk pulled at his very sore stitches. They didn't even make it to the door before Chase was steering him back.

House was unimaginably grateful for the hard, uncomfortable hospital bed. He was too tired to protest or crack wise about Chase's ministrations. When the heavy fatigue lifted a little he turned to his young fellow who was changing his saline drip. Something had just occurred to him. A request he'd made just before he'd fallen unconscious and the possible consequences.

"The ketamine."

Chase looked down at him after attaching the new bag to the intravenous line. "They gave it to you."

House turned away. Chase finished what he was doing and after a last look at the diagnostician he left. He had nothing more to do, no viable reason to stay and House wouldn't want him around anyway. If there was anything House hated being it was being weak. Well, nobody liked being weak but for House who was already dependent on his cane and his pills this was probably worse because he'd never needed help from any person, just his stick and his meds.

Greg barely noticed his exit. Eyes heavenward he simply lay there and felt the lack of pain from his right thigh. Maybe it was the morphine. He liked to think that it was the ketamine treatment. He'd been reading about it for the past month or so, considering his suitability for the trial. The issue had featured heavily in his dream, especially the loss of the last thing he had left that worked properly. His mind.

If he did have the side-effects he feared, he wondered if he'd blame Cuddy or Cameron or whoever gave him the treatment. After all he'd been barely conscious when he asked for it, had probably lost more than a litre of blood already. He hadn't been in his right mind. He could plead temporary insanity. They couldn't.

He wondered if Moriarty would plead temporary insanity when they finally dragged his ass into court. He could only wondered how much of his hallucination had been accurate. He had no reason to think that any of it was but something drove Jack Moriarty to shoot him. If it had just been his acerbic wit then he would have been shot years ago by some other disgruntled patient. Still, no matter the reason his hallucinatory introspection had left its mark.

He turned his head to the window, to the sun and the blue sky. He would get to see this day and many more after it. Out there somewhere was there a person who wouldn't because of what he had done? Maybe Moriarty could plead temporary insanity, and maybe Greg wouldn't protest.

H 

Dr. James Wilson, Oncologist, the label on the wood door read. There was also the alphabet soup of abbreviated degrees but he ignored those. He tapped the door twice before slowly entering.

"Dr. Chase. What can I do for you?" Wilson asked in a friendly tone from behind his desk. He and Chase had developed a moderate friendship over his nearly two years at the hospital and it had grown after an incident a few weeks ago. An incident that had provided depth to the formerly two-dimensional characters that both Robert and James had been to the other due to their limited interaction. They hadn't told House what had happened but he'd quickly picked up on the difference. They didn't intend on telling him what had happened, mostly because it was private and it was fun knowing something that he didn't.

"I just wanted to inform you that House is awake." The blonde stepped further into the room as he spoke. His eyes were briefly caught by the orange 'Vertigo' poster behind the oncologist.

"How is he?" The vitality he'd heard in Wilson's voice a moment ago had evaporated.

Chase responded but watched carefully for the other man's reaction. "He's doing well. He's himself for the most part."

"For the most part?"

"He's just tired. I'm sure he'll be back in top form in no time," he said in reference to House's ability to deride.

The news didn't seem to pull Wilson from his funk and Chase thought he recognized the emotion weighing the shoulders down. He wasn't sure how it was possible but he took a stab at it.

"This isn't your fault."

Wilson looked up at him and leaned back in his chair. "Isn't it?"

"I don't see how. You didn't pull the trigger."

Wilson sighed and seemed to fall in on himself. His comfy leather-backed chair was suddenly too big and the room was too dark. "I let him."

Chase frowned. He sat down in one of the empty chairs across from Wilson. He was willing to listen. House wasn't around for the oncologist to talk to and with this particular topic he wouldn't be able to help so Robert decided he would do it.

"I didn't stop him. I know what he's like. I know how he can devastate people but I didn't do anything."

Chase let a breath out in a puff. "You're not an enabler. And if you are then so are the rest of us. We all know what he's like but because we can handle it, we excuse it, ignore it. I mean, if you want to play the blame game then you're missing some people. Moriarty foremost."

"But it was House who set things in motion."

"Okay, he could stand to be nicer to his patients, nobody will argue that but you can't blame yourself for his actions. Being his friend doesn't make you a co-conspirator." He wasn't even sure of all the details as to why Moriarty hated House so much. The police on the case weren't sharing many details and Moriarty was sedated most of the time so talking to him was out of the question.

Wilson shook his head slowly. He still felt responsible.

"You're his friend, not his keeper," Chase told him.

"With House, I'm not sure there's a difference."

"Well he did ask for ketamine." Wilson stared at him unsure as to what significance Chase was trying to express. "Maybe he doesn't want to be miserable anymore."

The notion brought around a slight nod from Wilson. House would always have that bit of that general distrust of humanity but Wilson remembered what he was like before his leg, before his marriage with Stacy fell apart. It was hard to explain, especially to anyone who'd only met the gimpy Greg. James would welcome the day that a bit of the old Greg awoke.

Chase stood from the chair telling him as he left, "You should go see him."

"I will," he replied to an empty room.

It was two hours later that James finally had no reason to keep putting the visit off. He'd finished his dictations, filed his paper work, and even cleaned his desk. After that he'd meandered through the corridors, speaking with other doctors, nurses and random people as he went. Maybe he flirted with some of the women too but his divorce was pretty much a done deal so he was free to look. He adamantly ignored the devil's advocate played by a part of his mind that told him he was looking for his next wife and his next divorce.

He didn't even acknowledge the voice that said there was a better option. An option that was currently a patient with two gunshot wounds and a bad leg. It was easy to run from that option. He'd had a lot of practice.

House's room had a nice view Wilson noted as he walked in. There were too many rooms in the hospital that were surrounded on all sides by more hospital. You look out the window and BAM! Another sick person. Of course looking out the window to the outside could only remind you on a daily basis what you were missing.

Currently Greg had another visitor that was reminding him of what he was definitely not missing. James had considered walking away unnoticed but Greg really shouldn't be getting so worked up.

"Oh, good –a witness! Now you can testify if she decides to pull the plug," House snapped, feeling somehow validated by the anger and affront on his ex-wife's face. Wilson winced and moved in to mediate. The Keeper of House to the rescue!

"Stacy," he began but she just put up a hand while glaring at her former husband.

"Don't worry. I'm leaving." She grabbed the cardigan that she'd placed on the foot of the bed. She always found the air conditioning in the hospital to be a little too strong. With her item retrieved she did exactly what she had promised.

Head tilted down in a vague manifestation of guilt James watched her from the corner of his eyes.

"You know," there was an expectant pause, "you aren't on life support. And they don't pull the plug, they flick switches and push buttons."

"I'm sure she got the idea." Greg's retort was unapologetic. James could only imagine what had set the grumpy doctor off. With House you never know what it might be. Maybe he'd be more stable when he was off the morphine.

James glanced up to the smaller of the two clear IV bags.

A second thought had him shaking his head slightly in denial of his hopeful conclusion.

Off the morphine and back on the Vicodin.

"Wasn't expecting you," Greg eventually said into the silence. The fatigue in his voice was in harsh contrast with the sharp words he'd thrown out a minute ago.

"Well, I was passing by. Wanted to see how many bullets it took to take you down."

"More than two apparently."

James smiled and took up the recently vacated chair. He didn't like visiting patients, at least not when the patient was a person he was close too. It was the same reason he hadn't done more than stop in a few times during Greg's infarction. Sure he'd worked on his case behind the scenes, trying to determine what could have been causing the pain but as a cancer specialist the idea of a clot starving the tissue downstream of oxygen and all the other stuff it needed had slipped his mind.

"How's your leg?"

"I wasn't shot in the leg." He purposely gave an obtuse response.

James tilted his head forward a little and rephrased. "Does it feel any better? Did the ketamine work?" He wasn't familiar with the treatment. Didn't know how fast it was supposed to take effect but if it was just a mental rebooting like Cuddy and Foreman had claimed then he didn't see why it shouldn't work right away.

"It's…not as bad. But the morphine is probably helping."

James's shoulders dropped a bit. Of course the morphine –how could he have forgotten about that? Maybe this was why he didn't hang around sick or injured friends; they made him a head-case.

He looked up as he heard Greg release a tired sigh. "I could really use a drink," he grumbled.

Mentally Wilson seconded the motion but he wouldn't encourage it.

"So what have you done now? You didn't get married while I was sleeping did you?"

James stumbled over the apparent non-sequitor. "What? No, of course not!"

"Then what's with the guilty Jewish boy look? All you need is the yarmulke and you'd have the whole set."

"It's nothing."

Greg was too tired to push the subject so he settled more comfortably in the bed. "I'm sick. I'm in pain. I'm bored. Cheer me up."

"Well…I hit a puppy with my car today."

House laughed, it was shallow but real and James smiled in return. They'd joked for years about the kitten-eating, puppy-murdering image that Greg seemed to have fostered throughout Princeton. The reputation preceded him just about everywhere he went too but few people honestly saw the humour in it. James did and he thought that Cuddy and Chase did too but humour was only a small part of the diagnostician's prickly demeanour. The cutting barbs and insults, the inappropriate comments and just plain rudeness put him on just about everyone's bad side, even James's on occasion. But he always came back. So, too, did Cuddy, House's three fellows and even Stacy. Either there was something else to House that drew them back or they were all just crazy. Folie à deux was one thing, but folie à six?

H 

"You can't say you didn't expect it. Just look at the man! One week with him and I wanted to shoot him."

"So he's a jerk. You deal with jerks everyday." Mostly in the clinic they both agreed without having to say it. "But people are willing to put up with his attitude if it saves their life."

"So, just because he's smart he can do whatever he wants? I should try this."

Chase paused with Foreman just before the glass wall of the man in question's room and patted him on the shoulder. He shook his head. "You're not that smart, mate."

Foreman's expression was unimpressed as he watched the Aussie walk down the hall. Shaking his head the neurologist steeled himself to enter the lion's den.

"About time you got here!"

Eric rolled his eyes and began the neurological exam.

H 

Nighttime had laid its shadows across the time zone obscuring details and putting restless minds to sleep. At PPTH the night shift and the on-call doctors fought against their circadian rhythm to maintain an appropriate level of consciousness and alertness with varying levels of success. At the nurse's station in the recovery wing an older lady was nodding off but jerking awake when her head dipped too far. Her sleepy eyes and ears didn't pickup the quiet and relatively uneven sound of steps as one of the patients hobbled past when her back was turned.

Greg had made it as far as the intersection of corridors when a familiarly accented voice interrupted.

"You're going to pop your stitches."

House turned his head in the direction of the voice and found Dr. Chase standing in the doorway of another patient's room. "Midnight visits on the recovery floor? How sexy. Do you dance too? I want Springsteen and do you have a dominatrix costume?"

Chase sighed. "He's in four-oh-two."

House didn't look away and didn't say anything. As Chase walked away he mumbled a low thanks that he hoped the younger doctor didn't hear. He modified his route to take him to his shooter's room –time for another confrontation. If there was a security guy posted outside the room House considered how to get the man to give him his weapon. It was only fair that he have a gun this time since Jack Moriarity had one the last time.

To his disappointment there was no security guard outside room 402. At least he wouldn't have to talk his way into the room. Moriarty was handcuffed by his right wrist to the bed and was fast asleep when Greg limped in. Well, that wouldn't do. Greg took a scene from his dream and used the man's IV drip to coax his body into an abrupt wakefulness.

"Why did you shoot me?" He demanded, nary a note of distress or upset in his voice. He did anger and annoyance so well, why break with tradition?

As the words left his mouth an intense sensation of déjà vu flowed over him only to be washed away by the crude words of his would-be-murderer.

"You bastard! I wish I had killed you! I wish they had let you die!"

House's frowned deepened as he considered his error. He'd expected the far more eloquent and insightful Moriarty of his dream. The dream-Moriarty however had just been a figment of his imagination, an honest and profound figment explaining to him the error of his ways. Showing him that those little details did count even if he couldn't quantify or sell them. The personality he'd in error attributed to the gunman in his mind clearly didn't match the reality of the shooter.

Unable to separate dream and reality, a possible side-effect of ketamine his mind warned. Well there was one thing he knew for certain was real and he used it to regain his grasp of the situation.

He pressed a button on the IV infuser control and watched with satisfaction as the man tensed. "Let's try this again. Why did you try to kill me?"

"I thought you deserved to suffer after what you did." Moriarty squeezed his confession through his clenched teeth. "It's your fault and you're not even sorry."

"Hey, you didn't even ask me."

Moriarty's hands clutched at the sheets as he tried to think through the discomfort and through his hatred. The consuming need to make this man suffer had given him balance before but with his apparent failure the need grew to desperation. "I know enough about you! You can't pretend to have compassion. You're a butcher masked as a healer. Can't bring yourself to care about the consequences of your actions. Well, it's about time you felt them!"

Moriarty lunged for him and House staggered backwards falling against the other bed and then to the floor. Suddenly there was a body between him and his assailant, a blond man in a white lab coat. The Jack Moriarty's curses and struggles died down until there was silence only intermittently punctuated with the beep of the heart monitor.

Chase turned around and carefully recapped the now empty syringe. He'd gone to the nurse's station to grab a sedative and then followed House here. He hadn't been sure who he'd need to use it on but better safe than sorry.

"Stay down," Chase ordered as he crouched next to the heavily breathing older man. He probed at the wounds making sure that he hadn't begun to bleed out.

"I'm fine," House said weakly.

"I know," He responded in a placating tone, reminiscent of the time House had tried to stay off his Vicodin for a week. Chase helped him up and into a wheel chair. House glared at the mechanical contraption but he wasn't up to the walk back to his room.

He was grateful for the silence as Chase wheeled him back to his temporary abode. With his usual clinical detachment and gentle hands Chase helped the sullen man back into his bed. He was sure there was a lot of thinking going on behind the vacant, cool-blue eyes.

He couldn't put his finger on it but somehow House seemed different. His presence wasn't as sharp as it once was and he hadn't asked about General Hospital or the OC once. Contemplating the notion that this shooting had somehow fundamentally altered the man that was Greg House was saddening. Given how often Chase was at the butt of his boss's jokes a change in him probably could have been viewed by most as something to be celebrated. Then again if it really bothered him, the way House treated him, he would have left long ago.

There was something unique in House. His honesty though often caustic and uncaring was still honesty and maybe it was the only way he had left to show that he could still care about some things. Chase held back a sigh as he re-attached the IV.

"No morphine."

That didn't stop him. He reconnected the second line to the port but rolled the blue dial up to pinch the tube shut. He might be feeling okay now but when the excitement wore off his injuries would ache again. "Just in case," he told House. The man had his eyes closed and was rubbing his right thigh. "Leg bothering you?"

"A little." There was something that Chase hesitated to label as wonder in House's voice. He thought his boss had been walking with a less of a limp and with a little less of his weight on his cane. Foreman had reported that the ketamine treatment seemed to have worked without any side effects so far. He'd repeat the exam daily for the next three days and then once a week from then on.

"What's the number to your masseuse?" Chase asked as he observed House rubbing the leg more vigorously.

"I don't know. Wilson has it I'm sure." His leg was beginning to cramp providing pain of a different kind than the one he was used to. Overexertion, the analytical part of his mind deduced and Greg smiled just a little even as the cramp intensified. Overexertion hadn't been possible before.

His hand rubbing up and down his leg providing minimal amounts of comfort was replaced with pair that immediately began to work magic. The spasm began to ease and the muscle relaxed as firm deep strokes eased the tension.

Chase's hands ran up and down the marred thigh. He knew he'd be able to provide some comfort to the aching muscle even though he gave the massage through the fabric of his hospital pyjamas. He could feel the uneven remnant of the infarction where a large portion of muscle had been removed. He was careful not to dwell on any particular part, though the slight changes in the feel the remaining muscle under his hand drew his curiosity about the injury. Right now though, House was his patient.

"I'd ask how you got so good at that but I'm not sure I want to know," he mumbled with his eyes still closed. He heard Chase snort in response. Practice or talent House couldn't be sure of which (he also didn't care). If there was any weirdness associated with his fellow massaging his injured leg it was easily obscured by the genuine pleasure his attention created.

"I'll get Wilson to call your masseuse in the morning. You'll probably need her every once in a while when you start your rehabilitation."

Greg's eyes snapped open. "Who said anything about rehabilitation?"

Chase met the suddenly hostile eyes. "It's part of the treatment." Ketamine, evaluation, rehab, evaluation, repeat last two steps as necessary.

"We'll see about that." House closed his eyes and leaned back. Just from the tone of voice Chase was already thankful that he wasn't House's physical therapist. There was no telling how far he would go to get out of it.

The massage continued for a few minutes more until Chase thought that what remained of the thigh muscle was suitably relaxed and the spasm was passed. He covered him with the thin hospital sheet and made a note in the file before heading out.

"You give me a massage, you tuck me in, but no good night kiss?"

"Only in your dreams, Dr. House." Chase walked out without a glance back. House smirked and layback trying not to think. He just wanted to rest. He'd think later, when the sun was up and Cameron was trying to suffocate him with her concern.

He closed his eyes.

Things would look worse in the morning. They always did.

H 

**End Chapter 1**

Hello! Sorry for the delay in updating but I wanted to finish writing the story before I posted it. I was going to post this chapter a month ago but then I realized it needed some touching-up (a lot of it). So it was either post what I had or wait, do a better job and post now.

Updates should come pretty regularly now. The story is written just some revisions required. It's long. I won't say how long since I don't wan to scare anyone off.

Minor spoiler warning for the next sentence:

And how pissed was I when House called Wilson an enabler in that episode! You know the one I mean. Anyway thanks for reading and thanks for your patience. Hopefully this story will be worth it. Let me know if the chapters are too short.

Sagga.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: House characters are not mine. Will be someday but no today…

**Chapter 2**

Two weeks later…

His triumphant return to work was marked with cake. Cliché sure, but it was chocolate so he excused it and helped himself to as much as he could get. He made obscene sounds of pleasure as people walked by the glass walls of the conference room and stared covetously at his treat. It was just about perfect. His leg was hurting far less and on a good day he didn't need his cane. Although the pain had receded much of the thigh muscle was still missing so walking was still not perfectly smooth. Cuddy insisted that physical therapy would make those good days even better but he didn't think Billy was up for another session.

His first and to this date only session of physical therapy had resulted in nothing being worked out but his mouth and Bill Newman's patience.

"Hello Newman," House had greeted with the same contempt the _Seinfeld_ character infused in his delivery. The session had only gotten worse from there and House had thought it all quite amusing. Of course nothing that much fun was legal, at least not in this hospital, so he'd found himself sitting in front of Cuddy before the time allotted for the session was even over. His innocent look had done nothing to quell her annoyance and House was glad to see that at least hadn't changed.

The looks he'd been getting from some of the other personnel were beginning to wear thin his already short fuse and he was contemplating some massive prank just replace the wary glances with the former contempt. Until then he'd just enjoy his cake. There was one thing missing however, one person actually, one foreigner more specifically.

"Where's Chase?"

"Away with his boyfriend," came the snide response from Foreman.

Cameron immediately came to Chase's defence. Couldn't she ever be even a little bit evil? "He's away with some friends. He'll be back tomorrow."

"I'm gone not even a month and the department falls apart."

"When the cat's away the ducklings will play," Wilson commented.

Foreman shook his head and took a forkful of cake. Ducklings, how he hated that term. Chase a duckling, sure, Cameron, definitely, but he, he'd been House's boss for three weeks. No respect, he sighed.

"So where is he really?" House asked Cuddy when it was just he, she and Wilson in his office.

"NIC-U," She responded and House shook his head. The Aussie had barely managed that previous stint in the neonatal intensive care unit after the death of the baby, what's his name. Now he was back there again. Did nobody else see the intensivist just asking for trouble?

"Why do they think he's away with his boyfriend?"

"You don't think he has a boyfriend?" Wilson asked.

"I'm sure he has several," House snipped but Wilson's question had done nothing to answer his.

"Maybe he just didn't want them to know?" Cuddy said. "And the boyfriend thing probably has to do with his friend who came by to see him here a week ago." She wasn't going to say anything more but House was curious. He'd missed prime teasing material while he was away. He should have installed hidden cameras.

"Well don't keep me in suspense."

Lisa gave him her patented unimpressed glare. House labelled it a level four on his scale to ten. A little higher than he thought the topic and the situation warranted which could only mean he was heading in a direction of something she didn't think he needed to know. When would she learn that there was nothing he didn't need to know?

Oblivious to Greg's deduction and Lisa's secrecy, James obliged and explained to his best friend. "He's just a friend of Chase's. He seemed kind of…friendly with Chase, if you get my drift but everybody who met him seemed to like him. Dare I say, even you might be done in by his honesty and charm."

"You can say it around an NG and an endotracheal tube if you suggest it again."

"Chase's personal life is none of your business," Lisa glanced between the two doctors, "either of you." She really didn't want House to get on the younger doctor's case about this. The last thing she needed was a feud between House and one of his subordinates. Even from a distance she could tell by watching Chase and that man together that they complimented each other really well and she intuitively knew that House would not take to that relationship really well. Not because he was homophobic but because it meant having to share the young man. House was very territorial, strangely territorial when it came to his subordinates and even mores so when it came to Chase, maybe because he was the first fellow to last so long. She didn't quite know or understand why but there was a lot about the people that worked for her that she didn't understand.

"Oh, Jimmy's just worried that somebody cuter and younger is moving in on his territory." House watched carefully Wilson's reaction. Wilson made some sort of comment. From Cuddy's laugh he'd say it was a pretty good retort but the slight pink tinge that blossomed on the high cheeks of the boyish face said something else entirely. He found his good mood fading as he contemplated this mystery, one he'd been trying to crack for the better part of two months. It'd been a recent discovery that any mention of Chase in an even remotely sexual context gave Wilson the same guilty blush even if his response sounded completely normal.

There was something there. He was certain it had to do with whatever incident that had made those two better friends. Sure it was none of his business as they had both told him numerous times but there was nothing he felt he shouldn't know. Nothing was too personal or off-limits. More than that, he really wanted to know what it was about Chase that suddenly drew his friend's attention. Maybe he could then explain what it was he drew his attention too.

"He was pretty cute," said Cuddy in a tone that was decidedly not the professional Cuddy they had all come to know and fear.

House jumped back into the conversation. "I hope you weren't too forceful with him. That last sexual assault case was almost won and lost by that very low-cut blouse." He stared pointedly downward and she tilted her head to the side in an exasperated motion. The fact that no such lawsuit existed and the fact that she considered her top to be appropriate for work (or she wouldn't have worn it in the first place) didn't diminish her annoyance.

"It's good to have you back, House," she said monotonously and got up to leave.

When she was gone James shook his head. "One day she's going to fire you."

Greg's face pinched in disbelief. "Never gonna happen. You and Chase on the other hand. I could see that happening."

There was that pink again! He was really on to something. He could crack sex jokes with the best of them and Wilson had only heard half of his repertoire.

"I've got to go."

"Where?" Greg asked sounding almost petulant.

He paused and turned halfway around. "Sick people, cancer, ringing any bells?" He walked out with a parting wave and vanished around a corner. House pulled a juvenile face but it was wasted on the empty room.

So Chase was double dipping again. Somehow he thought he shouldn't be surprised. The last time all he'd gotten from the Australian was that he wasn't rich and he could only wonder how many logical ways there were to take that.

H 

NICU wasn't nearly as bad this time around. After Michael's death he thought he'd never go back there. He was being overly dramatic at the time yet walking back into the room filled with incubators and tiny little lives had not been easy. He would have preferred any other posting but this was part of his specialty and they were shorthanded.

He placed his hand into one of the ports of an incubator and gently rubbed the child's side easing her unrest. The isolation of the incubators did get to the kids sometimes and a simple touch could do a lot. He smiled as the baby grasped his finger. With the added bulk of his glove the grasp was tenuous at best but she managed to hold on. He extricated his pinky and ran one finger up the sole of the baby girl's foot in a small arc. He watched with just a hint of visible fascination as the tiny toes splayed out briefly before curling up.

"You'll be happy to know that your upper motor neurons are just fine," he told her with a slight smile. He pulled his hand out of the incubator after a parting touch. He really did like working with babies. When he told House the last time that he needed a break from their patients it hadn't been a total lie. He didn't mind patients lying to him. He expected it but he did prefer the children. They were far more direct, and far less complicated. He'd also needed a break from House too. Not because the man had done anything to him. He'd just been a little confused at the time and needed to get some things worked out away from those far-too-observant eyes.

Late afternoon eventually rolled around and his workday was coming to an end. Tomorrow he'd be back in Diagnostics. No doubt House was back already. He'd considered showing up to get some cake, chocolate being one of his vices, but decided against. Cameron and Foreman thought he was away, taking a long weekend since he had to take his mandatory vacation days, and he didn't want to explain to them what he was doing back, working on his vacation time. NICU was far enough away from Diagnostics that it was unlikely they were to come here unless they had a patient, which he knew they didn't. They hadn't taken a patient since Mr. Swollen tongue. He'd worked mostly in the ICU and ER while House was recuperating. He didn't know what Foreman and Cameron did.

He signed out and took a set of stairs to the ground floor where he could walk home. He lived far enough away that he could take his car but with the cost of gasoline going up and the nice weather moving in he'd chosen to walk and ride his bike more often. He also couldn't bring his car in when he was supposed to be on vacation.

Tomorrow it was supposed to rain so it was a good thing that he was returning from his 'trip' and could drive in. He swore the rain here was several degrees colder than it was in Australia. Then again everything was colder here. You'd think he'd be used to it by now.

Well, there were some things he'd gotten used to.

Chase unlocked the door to his apartment knowing that there would be someone inside. He dropped his bag by the door and with a happy smile called out.

"Honey, I'm home!"

A dry response came from the big lump on his couch. "Oh, ha ha."

H 

When Chase walked into the glass walled conference room the next day Cameron and House were already there. Whatever conversation they were having before he arrived ended as soon as they saw him. He greeted them suspiciously and re-categorized their conversation as an argument given the irritated look on House's face –more irritated than usual that is –and the angry flush on Cameron's.

"Everything okay here?" he asked cautiously as he removed his coat and put his bag down. House barely spared him a grunt before heading to his office. He looked expectantly at Cameron but she just shook her head and returned to the patient file in her hand. Chase chalked it up to House being an ass and Cameron being overly sensitive and went to get a cup of coffee. Foreman breezed in while Chase was putting his usual several teaspoons of sugar in the hot liquid.

Foreman greeted Cameron in his usual manner and then a sly smile crossed his face as he turned to Chase.

"So, Chase…"

He didn't even turn to respond but the tone had already caught the interest of Cameron. "So, Foreman…" he mimicked.

"How's Mister René?" The innuendo in his voice was so thick Chase was surprised he didn't choke on it.

"He's fine. I'll tell him you asked." He took a sip of his coffee and raised an eyebrow at the mildly put-off expression twisting the black man's face. He clearly didn't like the innuendo reflected back at him.

"Now, now, children. There's no need to be mean," House said, hobbling in to the room. Today was not the best day for his leg. It was aching a little but not with the infarction pain. It was over exertion again. "I think we all knew that deep down Chase played for the other team." He looked at Chase hoping for a reaction but the man just looked at him over the rim of his mug.

"This isn't relevant," Cameron said quickly.

"Of course it isn't but everyone else has met Mister Ream-"

"René," Chase corrected. He took an empty chair and sat down with a sigh. Damn everyone and their big mouths. His first month at PPTH there'd been numerous rumours saying he was gay. He'd been hit on by enough men to know how to say no without being rude but it had been aggravating to have to do it in the hospital where he worked. Still there'd always been women around willing to at least go out with him and through them the rumours had faded, until recently.

"Whatever." House waved away the correction and continued to speak while he grabbed his trusty black marker. "I haven't met your…friend and I'd like to." He said it with his back turned to them and the marker squeaked as he wrote on the whiteboard. Strangely he sounded almost honest.

Cameron, Chase and Foreman glanced at each other and then to their boss's back. They'd all entertained the idea of a new, nicer, post-shooting House with varying degrees of welcome and trepidation but the reality of it was absolutely frightening. It was like water flowing up hill or the sun revolving around the earth. Good thing it wasn't real.

It only took a moment of watching him and replaying his words in their minds before the realization of the farce dawned.

"You bastard." Chase's wide eyes were shifting around rapidly as almost forgotten, unremarkable events were seen with a different bias. That doctor, the one in radiology who always asked him questions with a strange smile on his face. The same one who stopped him the morning and asked what Chase thought were some weird questions. "You made a bet!"

Foreman who'd been a little shocked by Chase's outburst began to clue in and he turned to stare at House who had stopped writing on the board. Likewise, Cameron's eyes were on the older man waiting for his response. Relevant or not, it was pretty entertaining.

"I wouldn't do something like that."

"Yes. You would," Foreman countered quickly. His head tilted a little in thought. "In fact, I'd say that's classic-House."

"Alright so I made a bet. It was ages ago." He finally turned to face them. "I'll split the take with you," he offered, clearly unapologetic. "But I will need some evidence first. How about it Chase? You and your boy-toy into filming the action? I could just borrow a tape."

"You know what else you could do? You could go to hell." Whatever good humour Chase had walked in with this morning with had evaporated under the scorch of House's callous humour. The anger in his eyes eventually turned House away and the conversation was dropped. The tension was almost stifling and only the marker on the whiteboard dared to make a sound.

Eventually House stopped writing. He moved to allow the other doctors to see the list. He didn't face them when he began to speak again. "New case. Chest pain, skin lesions, fever, cough and a general feeling of bleh. Initially thought it was the flu but when he didn't get any better after ten days he went to Princeton General."

"Pneumonia," Cameron said immediately.

"That's what the geniuses at Princeton General thought. They gave him an antibiotic and, you guessed it, he decided to come here for a better opinion when the symptoms still didn't improve. Actually the symptoms improved, but the patient got worse. There are also the skin lesions which pneumonia can't explain. Can't ignore them just because they're unsightly."

Cameron spared a fraction of a second to glare at him. "Maybe it's just a rash he happened to get at the same time."

House stared at the board with furrowed brow and fake confusion. He walked over to where Foreman was sitting and looked at the board from that position. "Rash…rash…I don't see any rash on the list."

"The lesions-" Cameron began but House interrupted.

"–are lesions. If he had a rash I would have put rash on the board."

"You actually saw the patient?" Foreman inquired, surprise affecting his words.

"Of course not. That's what minions are for. You," He looked at Cameron, "can do the patient history. Rash or lesions; you decide. You," He rested his hand heavily on Foreman's shoulder, "get a new chest X-ray for our lucky friend."

"Princeton General would have already done an X-ray. He should be their patient," the neurologist protested weakly though already knowing House wouldn't change his mind.

"They had their chance. And the X-ray is old. I want to know what's there right now." Truth be-told he just wanted something to do. Three weeks of nothing but daytime TV had actually made him miss his work. He wasn't going to start working harder or anything, that wasn't his style, but for now any puzzle would do. "And Bo Peep gets to break into the patient's house."

Cameron and Foreman left to carry out their duties and noticed as they went that House was staying in the conference room instead of ducking out to go see Wilson or play his PSP. Cameron glanced back at Chase who was grabbing the jacket he'd removed a few minutes ago and ignoring House.

"Take a mask with you. Whatever he's got he probably breathed it in."

Chase nodded but remained silent.

"You're not going to be bitchy all day are you?"

Finally Chase turned to glare at him. "You have no business poking around my private life."

"That's never stopped me before."

"Why does it matter to you what I do on my own time?"

House didn't have an answer that he was willing voice so instead he posed his own question. "Why does it matter why it matters to me what you do on your own time?"

"It doesn't matter but most people would have gotten the hint that it's none of their bloody business."

His tone, language and the slight thickening of the accent all told House that he was pressing a little too far but he didn't stop. He couldn't. The Greg House model of a human being came with a faulty governor. There'd been a recall but people never pay attention to those. "It never bothered you before when I pried."

"Of course it bothered me!"

"But you never got this worked up, except when your dad was here," He noted with the air of an after thought.

Chase's vision tinged red a little bit more. The issue of and the issues surrounding him and his father were still sore spots and he didn't appreciate the diagnostician's meddling, just as he hadn't back then.

He went for the door. This useless conversation didn't warrant concluding. House thought differently and the question he posed briefly paused Chase before he left.

Greg watched him go while he pondered the answer to his own question.

"So, what makes René as or more important to you than your father was?"

H 

The search of the patient, Andrew Cotran's house didn't produce anything of interest. The man had a lot of plants but as a landscaper, a high end one, it was expected. Cameron had taken a complete background and no history of respiratory complications was found in the family. Mr. Cotran also hadn't been out of state for more than six months and the furthest he'd gone prior to that was New York. Cotran's chest X-ray was a little more enlightening. To the trained eye of his doctors it showed pneumonia-like nodules with cavities.

"Tuberculosis," said Foreman, examining the X-ray on the backlight.

"He hasn't been out of the country," Cameron commented.

"Do you have a better idea?"

She just shrugged. Tuberculosis seemed like the obvious diagnosis but the skin lesions didn't fit. (Yes, they were lesions.)

"Damn it! That came out of nowhere!" They all turned to look at House. The man sat in his chair, legs propped up on his desk and his video game unit in hand. Feeling their scrutiny he told them, "level six of Zelda," as though that explained everything.

"If he's bringing up mucus when he coughs we should do a sputum culture," Chase suggested as he read through the notes Cameron made in her loopy handwriting. He figured it was only a matter of time before all their handwriting resembled the barely legible chicken-scratch that doctors were notorious for –Dr. Wilson, case in point. Doing so much writing for each patient would eventually make them pretty slack on the legibility issue.

"That'll take days," said House absently as he shifted his whole body in a futile attempt to get his game character to move to the side before he was hit. "Damn it!"

"Then we should start now."

"Fine, get the culture. Get a stool sample and check for parasites while you're at it."

The three fellows left just as Dr. Wilson arrived. "Got them doing your dirty work already I see."

"It's what they're here for."

"I'm here for lunch. Come on." He half turned to the door as House abandoned his game and stood.

"You're buying."

"As always."

H 

The three doctors walked into the patient's room. A girl in a chair looked expectantly at them. Cameron introduced Foreman and Chase to the girl, Mr. Cotran's stepdaughter, Claire.

"So, have you figured it out?" she asked hopefully.

"We have some ideas," she said trying to keep the girls hopes up.

"His O-2 sat is low," Chase noted from the monitor.

"He's still coughing," Claire supplied. "His voice is getting kinda raspy too."

Forman began percussing the man's chest and all three doctors listened to the sound. "It's a little dull," the neurologist commented.

"Pneumonic consolidation," said Cameron, leaning back to her initial diagnosis.

"The skin lesions," Chase began but didn't conclude. Cameron took the remark as an unnecessary reminder and snapped back at him.

"I know. It doesn't explain the lesions!"

"No," Chase said absently as he continued to examine Cotran's wrist and hands. The nodules were raised with uneven edges. At the peak of the small mounds were little depressions, almost holes with a slightly dark discolouration. "I think we may want to get Dr. Wilson."

Cameron and Foreman looked over Chase's bent head at each other. Bringing Wilson in on this meant Chase thought it was cancer. If cancer was the cause of all these symptoms then it meant it had metastasized. In short, a cancer diagnosis did not have a good prognosis for the patient.

Claire looked worriedly from her father to the doctors. "Who's Doctor Wilson?" The looks returned didn't assuage her worry and she placed a worried hand on her father's leg needing the contact. Nobody expected him to flinch violently away from the touch.

The pain spiking through his knee from his stepdaughter's touch and his subsequent movement had him gasping but his respiratory condition made getting the oxygen his body craved very difficult.

"O-2 sat is dropping!" Chase announced as the monitor began to blare a warning. "Mr. Cotran you have to relax!" Panicking would only increase his body's need for oxygen and his lungs just weren't equipped to give it to him right now.

Foreman quickly grabbed a breathing mask and turned on the oxygen supply. He slipped the clear plastic piece over the man's nose and mouth and watched as the panic began to ebb and the oxygen saturation go back up towards normal.

H 

James eyed the carrot stick Greg had just snatched off his plate. It wasn't an unusual occurrence, Greg stealing his food, but that was his last carrot. All he had left now was celery, which wasn't even kosher. He didn't keep to a strict kosher diet usually so that wasn't a real problem. The problem was he didn't like celery all that much.

Unaware of his companion's displeasure, or well-aware and simply ignoring it, Greg continued to speak. "It's not like I've never looked into his private life before. Remember that girl his third month here? Never even blinked."

"So you think he should be used to you violating his privacy?" James reached across the small cafeteria table to grab a slice of cucumber from Greg's plate only to have the other man fork him. "Ow!" His exclamation turned a few heads but they turned away pretty quickly. "Do you know how many bacteria are in your mouth?"

"You should thank me. I'm giving your immune system something to fight so that it doesn't turn on you." The man always had an excuse. "I don't see why this guy is so important."

"Maybe he just doesn't want you telling everyone he's gay."

"I've already done that. Besides it's pretty obvious that he's likes women which only makes René a bigger anomaly." Wilson didn't comment. "René is a girly name. Are you sure René isn't a girl?"

Wilson dropped his utensil on his plate in a fit of bad temper. "His first name is Zinedine. And yes, I'm sure he's a guy."

Though James's eyes were still on his lunch Greg could see the irritation in the lines of his face. Wide-open blue eyes took in everything about the hunched shoulders and the fingers tapping a tense pattern in the table. "So is it Robert or Zinedine?"

A second of thought didn't enlighten Wilson as to the rest of the question. "What?"

"That you're jealous of."

"I'm not jealous," was the easy denial.

"Thought maybe you'd try a blonde male since your luck with blonde females seems to have waned?"

"That's not funny, House." Julie wasn't even a blonde, not naturally anyway, but that wasn't the point. They hadn't even signed the divorce papers yet so it wasn't official and Greg well knew that his latest wife's infidelity really upset him.

Greg continued to disregard his friend's responses and instead read his body. "Did he turn down your advances before? Is that what the two of you thought you'd try to keep from me?"

"When I said none of your business, I meant it's none of your business!"

Greg turned his head to the side a little giving his buddy a sidelong stare. "It's always been my business before."

James stood up. "Not this time." As he was about to stalk away his beeper went off. He read it and sighed. He couldn't escape his infuriating best friend just yet.

"They think he might have cancer."

"Who?" Greg asked wondering about both the "they" and the "he".

"Your underlings and your patient."

H 

Wilson and House met the three fellows back at the diagnostics conference room. They'd added hypoxemia and joint pain to the list of symptoms.

"So who thinks cancer?"

"The lesions look like squamous cell carcinoma," said Chase.

Foreman followed with his own suggestion, jumping on the cancer wagon. "Could be basal cell carcinoma."

"It doesn't have to be cancer. Sarcoidosis could cause this."

"Let's confer with the expert shall we?" House said turning to the oncologist.

"Biopsy the skin lesion," was all he said before walking out.

The three doctors wearing lab coats looked in askance at House. Wilson wasn't usually that curt.

"I didn't do anything," he said innocently. Cameron shook her head. He couldn't take responsibility for anything. He just spoke and acted without thinking. If being shot couldn't change him then nothing would. She'd concluded as much during the argument she had with him that morning but he proved it over and over with every word out of his mouth.

"Go biopsy. What are you waiting for?" The three headed for the door. "Wait! You, go do my clinic hours." He nodded towards Chase. Before a funnily accented word could be said a demanding female voice interrupted.

"Do your own clinic hours House." Cuddy.

"But I might piss someone off. You haven't installed metal detectors."

"It's a chance I'm willing to take." The click of her heels faded as she walked away, en route to somewhere else.

House sighed silently, eyes on the floor. He saw the three sets of feet go by leaving him alone in the room. He wasn't eager for clinic duty. He never was but possibility that he'd piss someone off or set in motion some disastrous sequence of events had never bothered him before. The consequences had never been so devastating before. He'd been shot, twice! And he may have inadvertently led a fragile woman to committing suicide. He was too cowardly to look into the police investigation to see if there had been any truth to his dream, to see whether he had pushed someone in to taking their own life.

So maybe he was a little wary of going to the clinic. He loved medicine, loved puzzles, he just couldn't stand people. Somebody had told him that once. He couldn't quite recall whom. Probably Wilson. He always had those neat insights into his psyche. With regards to the clinic and people, he knew he wouldn't be able to hold his tongue. He'd never been able to before and contrary what Cameron thought, two bullets weren't going to fix him.

H 

**End Chapter 2**

Was going to make this chapter longer so that we could get the good stuff (i.e. Chase-torture) faster but had a problem with the size of the post on LJ. Instead I'll just post the next part sooner. :)

Sagga...


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: House and friends are not mine, yadda yadda yadda…

**Chapter 3**

The histological report came back with a diagnosis of squamous cell carcinoma, which made Mr. Cotran a cancer patient and thus Wilson's problem. It was Wilson who gave the news to Andrew and his stepdaughter. They'd need to biopsy his lung and larynx and any other neoplasms found by the bone scan that had been scheduled for his knee. If the cancer had spread to all the systems suspected then he wouldn't last more than six months even with chemo and radiation.

When James left the room there where tears in the father's eyes and more streaming down the face of the girl who'd grown to love him.

H 

The day was over. Their case was solved. House, however, was still working on another puzzle.

"Chase."

"What?"

"Do you really love him that much?"

Chase walked away without answering.

He ended up back at the hospital at two in the morning when a drunk driving accident put four patients in the critical care wing. It usually would have fallen to the intensivist on call that night but he was the father of one of the victim's. The drunk driver crashed his car into the two-door Honda of Bradley Marlow who'd been returning from a party with three other friends. The passenger on the impact side of the car was pronounce dead at the scene but the driver, Marlow, and his friends in the cramped back seats made it through the collision. The intoxicated driver also made it to the hospital and of the four survivors he had the least serious injuries.

It was 8:45am when Chase heard his name being called by a familiar voice. He sighed tiredly. He'd only gotten two hours of sleep the night before. He wasn't in the mood to put up with his surly boss.

"It's not cancer," House informed as he walked to Chase's side with less of a limp than the day before. Chase's eyes drifted down to the other man's right hand, still not used to the sight of him without his trusty weapon.

"What's not cancer?"

"Mr. Coltrane."

"Cotran."

"Yeah him. Blood markers for cancer came back all wrong. Plus two more symptoms: headache and neck pain."

The sleep-deprived brain barely recalled the symptoms of the day before. He rubbed the side of his head trying to stave off his own headache. "Meningeal involvement," he muttered. "Where are Foreman and Cameron?"

"Not in yet."

Chase wished they were because he couldn't conjure a differential diagnosis at the moment. "Are we sure it's not TB?"

"That test was negative," House said quickly. "Come one something else." House snapped his fingers impatiently.

"Maybe Cameron was right. It could be sarcoidosis."

"Can't think of anything new so you pick something that was already said," House accused.

Dull blue eyes rolled towards the ceiling in exasperation but the sentiment remained incomplete as one of the ICU patients began to code. It was one of the accident victims. He'd been in the rear seat on the impact side and though the odds had been against him, he'd made it through the night without complications.

"He's crashing!" an ICU nurse yelled over the alarms. The young man's intercranial pressure had spiked and his body jerked violently as he seized.

"Push ten cc's ativan!" Chase ordered and a moment later the violent jerking ended. "Prep an OR and get a neurosurgeon. It's another subdural." He'd already gone for surgery for bleed the night before and the surgeon had marked his chances for survival as good if he didn't have another. The young man's chances had just gone from good to almost none in the matter of seconds.

Chase would assist in the surgery trying to keep the patient alive long enough for the neurosurgeon to repair the damage. It wouldn't be enough.

H 

The emergency surgery was over. The patient had survived but he was still in critical condition. There was little hope that he would survive. Chase had just walked out of the operating room when a white cup with the Starbuck's logo was thrust into his path.

"Coffee?"

Tired or not he wasn't about to blindly trust House. "What's wrong with it?" He watched the older man from the corner of his eye.

"Nothing. I just thought that maybe you'd like something to keep you from walking into a wall." Chase stopped walking and stared at him. House was never this nice, especially not to him. "A clinic patient gave it to me to spite her boyfriend. It's more your type of coffee. I just took it on principle," House finally admitted. If Chase didn't take it then he was just going to dump it. He'd only accepted the beverage to piss off the woman's boyfriend who'd been giving him nothing but attitude during the whole examination.

Slowly Chase took the drink. "Thanks." He took a sip of the warm beverage. Before it even touched his tongue he knew it was going to be extremely sweet. He could smell the sugar in the drink, which is probably why House didn't want it. He liked sugar in his coffee, not the other way around.

"Cotran still doesn't have a diagnosis yet."

His tired mind could only come up with a simple suggestion. "Histoplasmosis," said Chase between sips. The caffeine and sugar were already making him feel a little better. House was about to make a remark but a rapid train of thought had him frozen in place with his mouth half open. Chase stared at him and continued to drink.

"Gotta go," the taller of the two suddenly announced. A few long strides and sharp turn later and House was out of sight. Chase couldn't even muster the enthusiasm to wonder what leap of logic House had made.

Foreman and Cameron had retreated to the lab soon after they arrived at PPTH that morning. House hadn't been in a good mood, unable to determine the cause of Cotran's illness. He'd sent them to run more test and as of yet nothing had come back with a positive result. They had other patients, ones from their clinic hours and they continued to run the tests required for those patients while considering their most critical one.

"Something chronic?" Cameron suggested from her workbench.

Staring through a microscope Foreman minutely shook his head. "He doesn't smoke, there's not history, and the symptoms aren't quite right. It's got to be an infection."

"So what acts like, and on X-ray looks like tuberculosis, looks like cancer on the skin but isn't either?" Cameron asked, sliding one sample into the centrifuge with each clause.

"Blastomycosis, my dear Watson." Two heads turned to the door. The bright lights of the corridor outlined House's tall form in his usual jeans, blazer, and t-shirt with a bright halo as though his answer and even his presence were divine. The illusion was broken as the door he'd pushed open swung back to hit him. Muffled snickers ended as soon as House turned back to them.

"Blastomyces dermatitis, found in soils mostly in the south central US but as a landscaper for rich people who'd want plants from all over it's likely he'd been exposed to the fungus. Inhalation of enough dry spores and the little bastards set up shop." He walked past Cameron and she turned to follow his path. "Body recognizes the little foreigners, sends the INS," he pauses and turns to Foreman, "by that I mean neutrophils, and our man gets his flu-like symptoms." He continued on to the back of the room and the two other physicians left their stools to follow. "Problem is by the time they can mount a co-ordinated attack the spores have become yeast and Mr. Cotran's immune system is looking for the wrong thing. Pieces of the infection break off and end up being carried through the lymphatic system to the heart where it's mixed into his blood to boldly go where no fungus has gone before."

"Disseminating miliary blastomycosis? That's…" Cameron paused. "That fits."

House turned away from the apparatus he'd been tinkering with. "And you doubted my genius." He turned back to the incubator and after donning a set of gloves, reached into removed the culture he wanted. "All we need to do is confirm with the sputum sample the third musketeer suggested we take."

The three doctors looked down at the test tube with the white growth inside. There wasn't much since it had only been a little over a day but there was enough to test.

"PAS and silver stain." He handed it to the already-gloved Foreman. "And don't inhale." He started for the door, completely confident in his diagnosis. "Start him on amphotericin B, and itraconazole."

H 

He felt as if he'd won. Cotran would be fine and now House would never have to think about him again. Just as importantly (or more importantly, depending on his level of narcissism) he was okay. This had been it. His first real test since the ketamine and he was still at the top of his game.

He caught the rubber ball after it bounced off the floor and then the wall but didn't throw it again.

Cuddy had been looking over his shoulder during the last couple of days, trying not to make it obvious but he could see it when she looked at him. Hopefully this would get her off is case and keep her from worrying.

He threw the ball again and caught it after the two expected collisions were made.

"So what was it?"

House slowly turned his head to find Chase, still in scrubs, standing in front of his desk.

"Blastomycosis. You were close." It was almost a compliment.

"You were right," Chase conceded unenthusiastically. Being close wasn't enough.

He was in the doorway to the adjacent room when House posed a question.

"How's that kid?"

Chase shook his head and rolled his lips in to wet them in a subtle gesture of upset. "He didn't make it." He'd be over it soon but the losses always lingered with him for a little while. Soon the young man on his way to the morgue would be another statistic modifying the recovery rate of the ICU, adding to the number of patients lost under Chase's care, just another number. It was a strange and disturbing transition from living person to statistic. Those expressions along the lines of 'you're more likely to die in a car accident than in a plane crash,' meant little to most people except that you needn't fear flying but for Chase and others like him who dealt with trauma cases it translated into tragedy after avoidable tragedy. It was only when dealing with the next case became easier, not as shocking, not as sad, that they knew it was time to move to something else. So the upset was a good thing. Now he just had to make his way past it and move on to whatever came next.

He continued into the conference room to sit down. From the other side of the glass wall House watched. There was something a little off about the Aussie –maybe not off entirely, just a little different. Discounting the turmoil connected to the death of one of his patients Greg knew there was still more to it than just Zinedine René. He still didn't know what Chase needed the extra money for. Nor did he know what happened between Wilson and the young doctor. So much mystery surrounding his floppy haired intensivist and every time he scratched the surface he caught of glimpse of something more intriguing underneath.

Greg glanced at the clock on the wall.

"Chase. With me." He waited until the young man actually started to get up before heading for the door and taking a right turn.

"Where are we…" He stopped speaking when he saw House barge into Wilson's next door office.

"Jimmy! Lunch! Now!" A few heads in the corridor turned towards the oncologist's office. Most people though, were used to hearing strange things from the offices of Drs. House and Wilson.

Chase shook his head at the muffled argument coming from inside the room. He'd just done an about-face to make his escape when House peaked out of office. "Don't go anywhere. We'll be right out."

"House, I just want to sit down and rest for a bit," Chase moaned. That coffee had worn off and the fatigue was setting in. He'd worked with little sleep before but he knew the routines he had to go through to make sure that he could still function. Part of that routine was getting small amounts of food or caffeine every few hours.

"Cranky, aren't we?"

Chase had had enough. He walked away muttering about some jerk for whom he worked. He hadn't gone five feet when suddenly the loose neck of his scrubs rode up to choke him.

"I didn't say you could leave." House gave one more parting jerk on the fabric before letting go. "Now, we can leave," he said walking in the same direction Chase had been heading. Behind his back the other two men glared at him.

"You okay?" Wilson asked placing a hand at the back of Chase's neck.

Chase who was still easing the choking sensation only responded with a nod and ignored the warmth of Dr. Wilson's hand.

House didn't bring any money with him and Chase didn't have any money on him either since he was still in scrubs, which only left Wilson to pay. He glared at Greg while handing over some cash to the cashier. The scruffy doctor just stared back and ate a fry. They found a table near the windows and began to eat their respective meals in silence. A few minutes into the meal and House hadn't done anything rude, not a question, not a comment. It was eerie.

"So how's René?" House asked casually.

I knew it was too good to last, thought both Wilson and Chase.

"He's fine." He tried not to be defensive. Chase watched House carefully, waiting for the next strike but it didn't come.

"Did you ever notice that Cuddy looks a lot like Nurse Spencer on General Hospital?"

Glancing between the frozen expression of mild shock on Wilson's face and the open curiosity on House's pulled a short laugh from the intensivist. He smiled down at his pasta and forked a few of the spirals before bringing them to his mouth.

The rest of the meal continued along the same script. They made idle conversation, even shared a few laughs. It was almost surreal to Chase –House laughing when it wasn't at someone else's expense, but it was nice. He felt something at being included in their little friendship, even if it was just once. Chase wasn't naïve enough to believe that House didn't have an angle. He couldn't recall ever being naïve enough to believe that. Eventually the axe would fall but if he'd learnt anything in his life, it was to enjoy the smooth ride while you were on it, because a ten-car pileup was around the bend.

H 

The next day wasn't as bright and happy as the one before which was just fine for House. He hadn't slept well last night. His damn brain wouldn't stop with all its thinking.

He arrived late and in an attempt to avoid Cuddy, who he heard was looking for him, he took a convoluted route to his office passing the office one of the hospital's former lawyers, Stacey Warner, formerly Stacey, House's ex-girl. He kept his head down as he walked through the corridor and past the room with too many memories. He hadn't spoken to her since his outburst after he'd been shot. She'd come to Princeton just to see him when she heard about the incident (wonder how that went over with Mark) and he'd chased her away. There was an inkling that flared whenever he thought of her. It was the kind of feeling that lead people to apologize but an apology would mean that her feelings meant something to him. They had at one point, still did to some extent but he didn't want it anymore.

Vindaloo Curry, she'd called him. Not much of a compliment considering she could only stomach a little of it every once in a while. So that sort of put the whole reconciliation thing down the crapper. And maybe he did have a conscience, thought perhaps she'd be better off with a man that was willing to lay more on the line to be with her than he had been.

Head tilted towards the ceiling, Greg released a sigh of relief when the elevator doors closed, leaving him as he always chose to be: mercifully, miserably alone.

His office was the way he left it the night before, not that he was expecting it to be different, and in the adjacent room were his fellows. One at the computer, probably checking the emails he didn't care he had, another was making himself a cup of coffee –"Want it black don't you, black like your heart?" he narrated with a crafty smile. Mr. Burns was a man after his own heart, and the stolen line from _The Simpson's_ could be modified to fit perfectly his black neurologist. He dropped his bag and jacket and strode with only a minor limp into the other room ready to deliver his remark when it occurred to him that something was missing. That was only two of three followers.

"Where's our eye-candy?"

Foreman turned just enough to make eye contact and then looked pointedly at Cameron. The silent answer didn't go unnoticed by Cameron and she glared at both of them in turn.

"I meant the blonde one."

Foreman shrugged while stirring his drink. "I don't know. I gave him a ride home yesterday. He said he was too tired to drive."

House thought about it and it seemed a decent enough answer. He returned to his office ignoring another inkling that told him to check up on his third fellow.

H 

His beeper had gone off about ten minutes ago. He'd considered getting it but he was watching a rerun of an _OC_ episode he'd missed. The grating, intermittent beeping, informing the device's owner that he'd missed a message, was closer to getting him up than the initial alarm had been.

When his phone rang he glanced at the cordless receiver sitting next to him on the couch. He didn't make a move to answer it. He saw Steve looking quizzically at him from his cage and shrugged. "It's probably at telemarketer," at eleven at night.

The rat tilted his head forward in an almost human gesture of scepticism.

"I have an answering machine," Greg defended himself and returned his attention to the moving pictures.

The answering machine greeting recorded in his voice played out, bringing a half smile to his face. The message that was left wiped it away.

"Doctor House, this is Doctor Tanaka. I just thought you might want to know that your intensivist is in the hospital with some pretty severe symptoms." You could almost hear the helpless shrug the doctor gave. "Not sure if you'll care but I thought I'd try to contact you anyway." The click of a phone hanging up punctuated the end of the message. A second later the lock on the front door clicked and Steve McQueen had the pad to himself.

H 

It had started with a headache at around four in the afternoon before. Rob Chase had attributed it to lack of sleep and way too much caffeine. A few Tylenol and a short break, just to rest his eyes, and it was back to work. The pain in his head had continued to increase until it was so severe that even moving proved uncomfortable. By then however, moving wasn't high on his list of things to do. He'd crashed on a cot in the small side room given for the ICU specialist and other doctors who where staying over night or just needed to catch a quick nap. His muscles had felt like sand bags, useless and heavy and his head was clogged with fatigue.

When he didn't feel any better after twenty minutes he knew it was time to head home. Bumming a ride from Foreman was simple after he convinced the man that he was just too tired to drive.

The familiar setting of his home, a neatly furnished bachelor apartment, hadn't eased his discomfort on any appreciable level. He'd dropped his belongings at the front door and dropped himself there as well. He must have sat there for at least an hour before dragging himself to the kitchen. When he ate the food came back up later no matter how hard he tried to keep it down. Fierce bouts of nausea which often ended in vomiting had him lying on the floor of the unit's one washroom between the attacks. The cool tiles had felt good against his flushed skin but the respite was all too brief. Sharp pains coiled through his abdomen before dissipating leaving him moaning after the episode had passed.

He thought it was just a bit of food poisoning. He'd sleep it off and feel better in the morning. Sleep however, was again lacking that night. The nausea became more frequent, though thankfully he had nothing left to bring up. The diarrhoea hadn't left him feeling any better either and by the time the sun peaked over the horizon he'd had less than three interrupted hours of sleep.

Through the blinds he'd forgotten to close the night before the sun peaked in promising a new day and pulling a groan from Rob. Though he'd get up later in the morning to get a little to drink and to inform Dr. Cuddy that he'd be out for the day, the increasing severity of his symptoms wouldn't have him calling for assistance until late that night.

It was now almost ten o'clock and he knew he needed to get to a hospital. His muddled mind was just clear enough to curse himself for leaving the hospital at all. If he'd stayed he wouldn't have to find a way back there. Hospitals were the perfect places to be sick and his car was there so he had no transportation –not that he thought he'd be able to drive in his condition.

Crawling to the phone proved to be an adventure. The floor had inclined when he wasn't looking pulling Robert to it more than once on the short trip to the required device. He didn't even bother to look at the numbers on the pad of the phone. The rest of the room wasn't in focus so he doubted the phone would decide to cooperate. Fortunately the number he wanted was number three on his speed dial.

"This is Zid," a low voice answered up promptly after two rings.

"Hey…Zid?"

"Rob? Rob is that you?"

"Yeah. Um…could you…"

"Rob, what's wrong?"

"I think…I…"

"Don't move! I'm coming right over! Okay?" Robert nodded. "I'm on my way hold on!"

"Okay…"

H 

House arrived. Not quite the apocalypse but as close as one usually got at PPTH. The warnings went out to the attending doctors. House on a day-to-day basis was alright, especially if you could avoid him. If he's bored Cuddy finds him a puzzle, because House left to his own devices was just a recipe for trouble especially if his tacky shows were on hiatus. But worse than Gregory House on the loose, was Gregory House on a mission.

"You called him?" Dr. Tanaka stared with confusion at his boss. He knew what House was like, everybody in the hospital knew. He still didn't see what the big deal was. House didn't have his cane anymore. Tanaka had heard anything bad about the man since he'd come back and it was rare that one could go even a day without the old House doing something to annoy someone.

"Martin!"

The doctor being addressed closed his eyes briefly in a moment of what might have been mistaken as prayer. He turned to the tall man rapidly making his way towards himself and Dr. Tanaka, who still wasn't sure what the problem was. Dr. House seemed less dangerous when he wasn't wielding his cane, which easily converted into a weapon. Despite that he was still quite formidable, especially with that expression on his face. Without the cane his shoulder's were not longer hunched as he struggled with the delicate ballet of keeping his balance. Now he stood straight up, and walked with confidence even with the slight limp, carrying all six feet and two and a half inches of the temperamental specialist.

"House."

Ignoring Martin's tone was too easy. "Chase, what's wrong with him?"

"Food poisoning," Martin responded quickly, closing the discussion. He went back to the file in his hand, dismissing the diagnostician.

House quietly exhaled, his shoulders setting, unconsciously preparing for the confrontation he was about to initiate. "Well on the phone, Boy Wonder here said the symptoms were severe." Tanaka tried to back away, clearly not wanting to be drawn into the argument. Now he understood what the problem was. Cane or not, House was still…well, House. "Either, he overreacted or you under-reacted. Either way it's your fault since you hired him."

"Malaise, abdominal pain, emesis and diarrhoea; all symptoms of food poising or at worst, gastronenteritis." Without raising his head, Martin raised his eyes from his file. "Now I suggest you go home and get some rest. You're crankier than usual." Martin, for all his bravado, didn't want to continue the discussion. He knew he wouldn't be able to win. In his mind that was a compliment because House was an ass. He crossed lines that we're established for a purpose. Martin didn't want to win against House. He didn't want to turn into that malicious beast of a man. He left to go make a round of the floor.

"So," House began, sliding his eyes to the half-Japanese doctor who'd been hired only three months ago.

Dark, wary eyes met his and prompted cautiously, "So…"

"Which one of you should I be calling an idiot? You for calling me here at eleven o'clock, or him for not calling me?"

Tanaka glanced in the direction of Martin but the man was far down the hall. He sighed and said, "Doctor Chase has a headache, along with the other symptoms. He says it just been getting worse since yesterday." One shoulder rose briefly in a manifestation of uncertainty. "I don't think this is just the stomach flu."

House's eyes shifted down the corridor where Martin was speaking with a nurse. Martin may have the experience but House didn't trust his diagnostic skills. Whether he should trust a doctor new to the hospital who looked like he was barely old enough to drink was debateable. Instinct, on the other hand, was right more often than it was wrong. If it wasn't, evolutionists and the rest of science would like to think that it would have been naturally de-selected. So he'd go with his gut and Tanaka's.

"Where is he?"

The lights had been dimmed in deference to the patient's headache and a whispered conversation carried softly to his ears when he slid the glass door away. In the bed where House had expected him was Chase and the man in the chair next to the bed, holding his hand must be Zinedine René.

Greg's mistrust of people in general wasn't new to anyone, certainly not the man himself. So, why then did this picture of his fellow and his boyfriend give that mistrust that little extra profundity which made it different?

The man assumed to be René had his back to the entrance and his body blocked much Greg's view of the patient. Though he must have heard the door slide open, René probably thought it was just another nurse coming to check on Chase. Likely the fiftieth one considering how popular the young man was with the nurses, bisexual and taken or not. Of course the bisexual part just doubled his prospects.

House moved further into the room. The soft conversation ended and both men turned to observe the third.

"If this is just some ploy to get out of work…" House said, leaving the threat open-ended even though he doubted that was the case. Chase looked dull. Usually he was shiny, and neat and pretty. He was still pretty –the sweat-matted hair and redness around the eyes wasn't enough to drown out the rest of his attractive features- but he looked less vibrant. The white sheets of the bed seemed to drown him in their folds dwarfing the fragile, yet still handsome body of the Australian doctor.

"Zid, Doctor Greg House," Robert said weakly to the René. "House, Zid."

Aware through Rob's tales of PPTH of the gruff man's reputation but forgetting it due to his lack of familiarity with him in the flesh, René –older than Chase but younger than House –offered a friendly hand to shake. "Nice to meet you."

In his state of illness Chase wasn't very quick in telling René not to bother. House surprised him by accepting the polite gesture and shaking the hand. Confused but in too much discomfort to care much Chase chalked it up to House trying to be nicer to his patients. Rob turned back to Zid and Zid turned back to Rob but not before he saw a curious shift in the older physician's expression. René would not be able to label it until later.

"So what's on the menu?"

Chase rattle off his symptoms: "Headache, fatigue, dizziness, vomiting, diarrhoea, abdominal pain." Just as he finished, said pain flared. Caught off-guard, he released his breath in a strangled moan and tried to curl his legs up towards his chest, anything to ease the sharp ache. The movement of his legs however, was restricted by one hand and then another. Managing to open his eyes for just a moment showed him that Zid and House each had a hand on him just above his knee, keeping him in place.

What he thought was respite from the pain came and then fled all too quickly leaving Chase writhing in silent agony.

House watched through the corner of his eye the distress on René's face. The majority of his attention was on his free hand as he tried to exam Chase's abdomen. With the hospital gown pushed up and hospital sheets pulled down, House used the tips of his fingers to probe the area. He felt a little bloated but there was nothing disturbingly abnormal. Maybe this was just a stomach bug –the headache didn't fit. It was possible it was just a co-incidence, headache and food poisoning, but according to the notes Tanaka took, the headache came first and the painkillers Chase took hadn't helped.

"Doctor Chase, we need to get a urine sample," Tanaka said as he entered, cup in hand.

"What for?" René asked.

Tanaka seemed a little uncomfortable but responded. "Toxicology screen."

Chase had already told them that he hadn't taken anything other than Tylenol but they clearly thought he was lying, or maybe that he accidentally ingested them. He sighed shakily, the abdominal pain having passed for now, and got up and to the washroom with Zinedine's help.

House stepped out of the way to make their journey easier and from the open back of the medical gown he saw Chase's grey boxers. Frankly, he always thought Chase was a briefs kind of guy.

When the business of getting a urine sample had been completed and the sample handed off, Chase was helped back to bed. House watched him get settled before heading for the door. He was going to go see Martin, see what the other man thought was the specific problem. If he was getting a tox screen then he wasn't buying the food poisoning idea either. He stopped when he heard part of the low conversation between the couple.

"I told you before, that's not going to happen. It'll work out." The words and the tone piqued his interest.

"You told him before?" House asked.

"It's a personal problem I've been working on. It's pretty much resolved but he's still worried. He just not thinking straight," Zid said while reached up to run a hand through the matted locks of blonde hair.

"When?"

"When what?"

House held back his exasperation but some made it into his tone as he was forced to clarify. "When did he start worrying?"

The dark-haired man had to think for a second. "When I got to his place he was a little disoriented but he got better on the ride over."

House shook his head. "No, he didn't." As he limped out of the room he flipped open his cell phone and called the rest of his team in. Some of the nurses glared at his clear defiance of the "no cell phones" rule but it was more of a precaution than a rule. Only in the older hospitals with the older equipment was there a risk. House glared back at a few of them as he went to his office. He called Foreman first and pretty much ordered him to come in without telling him why. Cameron was next and all she needed to hear was that there was a patient who needed them. He didn't even have to tell her it was Chase for her to agree. Greg snapped the phone shut and smirked. The clocks read midnight and they were still at his beck and call.

H 

"Headache, fatigue, dizziness, abdominal pain, vomiting, diarrhoea, depression," Foreman read off the whiteboard. "That's quite the cornucopia of symptoms."

Cameron nodded in agreement and covered her mouth when a yawn slipped out. "So who's the patient?" she asked House as he walked from his office into the room. "And where's Chase?"

"You already have the answers to both your questions so let's get on with the differentials shall we?"

House limped past the two fellows who glanced at each other before setting their eyes back on their boss. "Chase is the patient?" Foreman questioned.

"We've already established that. Differential," he ordered with a wave to the board.

Cameron was suddenly completely awake. Her wide eyes took in all the information and her mouth spat out a diagnosis. "Could be drugs. Or alcohol."

"Said he didn't take any."

Foreman reared back a little as he crossed his arms. "So all our other patients lie, but not Chase?"

"No. Tox screen is already in the works. What else?"

"Food poisoning. You called us here for this?" Unlike Cameron and Chase, Foreman didn't have as much faith in House's medical skills.

"Doesn't account for his headache or the depression."

Eric shook his head slowly saying, "So he has a headache. It's not a big deal. And Chase has never been the most giddy of people."

"Go get a history," House ordered, no room for argument. If Foreman didn't believe this was serious then he could go see the proof for himself. Also, he needed a better timeline of the onset of symptoms. "Make sure the lab doesn't mess up the tox screen," he said to Cameron who nodded eagerly and left to do just that.

As she passed by Foreman who still looked irritated by the whole situation she tossed him disappointed look mixed in with her glare. This wasn't just another patient; this was one of the team. She forgave him his insensitivity for now. He hadn't been in this situation before. Last time he was the victim of an unknown ailment. She, Chase and House were all too familiar with the internal imbalance the situation caused, the added responsibility they felt. She forgave because she had no doubt Foreman would learn it too.

House seated himself in a chair, removing the pressure from his injured leg and tried not to worry. The last time one of his fellows had been sick it had nearly ended with a fatality. It was easier to shift his mind to one of his problems, a problem that had practically defined him to many people.

He pulled out the translucent orange bottle from his pocket and swallowed a pill. His leg wasn't as bad as it was and not nearly as bad as it had been when he'd needed the morphine but he still needed his Vicodin. Whether the pain was from overexertion of the previously rarely used muscle or because the ketamine hadn't worked entirely he wasn't sure.

He tossed the bottle up and caught it, listening to the sound of the pills colliding inside. There were quite a few left, which meant he was doing pretty well in his effort to reduce his intake.

It hadn't bothered him before, his addiction to the little white pills but back then he'd needed them and the need had excused everything else. With the ketamine treatment his pain problem no longer negated his pain management problem since the former was less of a problem than it once was.

He'd flaunted his addiction, joked about it, and never hidden it from anyone. Being public and brash about it appealed more to him than subtlety (not that subtlety was ever that appealing to him). Outright disgust from the other hospital workers was better than quiet pity. Still it was an addiction, and he was an addict but he'd taken a big step to let go of the pain. Why shouldn't all the peripheries go with it?

Foreman walked in near the interim conclusion of his distraction. House glanced at the clock atop the bookshelf and noted with silent surprise that almost an hour had passed. Foreman walked to the whiteboard and stared at the symptoms. Behind him, still seated, House evaluated the oldest of his fellows. He was tempted to pick up the marker and trace on the grey shirt the lines of tension on the silent man. Foreman picked up the coveted black marker and added another symptom to the list: dyspnea.

"He started gasping while I was talking to him, became tachycardic." Eric was beginning to lean away from the substance abuse/withdrawal diagnosis. He'd seen people in withdrawal, seen many people on drugs, and while Chase had all the symptoms, after talking to him he didn't think the mentality fit. He'd seemed happy when he was talking to René and he'd like to think that if someone he worked with everyday was on drugs, he would have noticed. Growing up in his neighbourhood had made him pretty familiar with the drug dealing and drug using type.

"How high was his heart rate?" House asked casually.

"One-twenty. He's on oxygen. And we may have another problem."

Icy eyes narrowed jus a little in weary anticipation.

"Martin-"

"House!" The yell interrupted Foreman before he could do more than speak the currently storming man's name.

House glared at Foreman as though he'd purposely brought the wrath of Martin down on him.

"Robert Nicholas Chase is my patient not yours. Keep your people out of my way."

"Last time I checked, I was the diagnostician. You're just a…what are you again?"

The red on Martin's face deepened and the other two men watched his hackles rise like a tide. "Stay off my case. I'm the primary. You got a suggestion? Give to Tanaka and he'll pass it along!" Martin stormed out as quickly as he had in.

"Not very stealthy are you? No wonder you got caught." House leaned his chair back watching Foreman's face. The subtle reference to his car jacking days wasn't lost on the younger man but he was used to it. Subtle, it seemed, only appealed to House when it was for an insult.

Foreman and House brainstormed while waiting for the urine test results. Cameron arrived with them not too long later. Her face was a little flushed and her eyes held some residual alarm when she silently handed the results over.

House dove into the report. After a few seconds his brows furrowed. All the results were normal. Then "what's with the face?" he asked impatiently.

She looked at him then down the corridor through the glass walls and back to the two men waiting for her response. "Doctor Martin just yelled at me."

Foreman laughed.

"Don't worry about him. He's a booger." House walked as best he could out of the room with the other two following.

"We're not allowed to see him," Foreman informed.

"Not as doctors but we're just going to visit a sick friend."

"You're not his friend," Cameron blurted out before she could stop herself. House spared her a quick scowl. They rode the elevator up to the fourth floor and approached Chase's room. They were just rounding the last corner when Martin materialized on the other side.

"Going somewhere?"

House swallowed his start and gestured vaguely in the direction of Chase's room. "Nurse's station," he lied. Even without his cane and with a slight limp he had a long stride which made side-stepping the shorter, rounder man that much easier. Foreman and Cameron followed cautiously.

"You can't go in there."

"Why not?"

"Because he's not your patient," a feminine but authoritative voice said. Cuddy appeared in his path in much the same fashion as Martin had before, again forcing House to swallow his jump.

"Don't you have a life outside the hospital?" He asked.

"Don't you?" She'd been here late three nights in a row trying to get her billing and HMO documents in order. Some people might have tallied that under the no-life-outside-the-hospital column.

Cuddy took him by the elbow and forcibly pulled him away from his destination. "House, this isn't your case. Martin's got this one."

"This one should be mine." He whined but tried to make it sound like a valid argument. "This one is Chase."

"That's exactly why someone else should take the case."

"Fine. Give it to Cameron."

Cuddy sighed but her face remained impassive. "You're too close to this. I won't make the same mistake twice."

Foreman felt Cameron glance at him and he was left to wonder exactly what had gone on while he was quarantined those months ago.

"It wasn't a mistake! We cured him."

"You broke into a quarantined zone, without a suit! You nearly killed yourself trying to save him," she whispered the last part so that only House could hear it but the gesture in Foreman's direction wasn't lost on any of the spectators.

"But I still saved him."

Lisa shook her head. There was no way to convince Greg he was wrong, so she did what she usually did when persuasion and acting like adults didn't work. "It's my call. You're off this case. I hear anything about you, or your people, anywhere near him and I'll suspend you and double your clinic duty."

Even Foreman and Cameron winced at that threat. Clinic duty was dreaded by just about every doctor and none more than House. It was not a great surprise that he relented. His single nod was rigid and served with a glower but he'd conceded. Cuddy gave her own nod and then strode away, crisis averted.

Once she was out of sight House turned to his employees. "Get a blood test done on him. Complete serology and metabolic products of any drugs he could have taken that wouldn't show up in urine."

"We can't draw any blood. You heard Cuddy, he's not our case," said Foreman.

"Is that supposed to stop me? Get his blood and test it. I don't care how." House walked quickly away, his limp becoming more pronounced due to his speed, following the path the hospital administrator had taken a minute ago.

The underlings left reluctantly to carry out his demand.

H 

He barged in without knocking and Cuddy didn't even seem to notice, which only served to further annoy him. "What is this really about?"

"I don't like Chase," she said, eyes still down on her papers. Nothing was said for several seconds until, when she reached for another form atop a stack of other papers House knocked the sheet to the floor.

"I can do my job."

Cuddy finally looked up at him. "And I'm trying to do mine. Part of which entails not letting you get caught up with your patient. I'm not doubting your skill."

"No, just my judgement."

She frowned at him from across the desk piled with stacks of paper. She was about to tell him that she always though his judgement was a little suspect but managed to hold her tongue long enough to think better of such a statement. She had been worried about the side effects of the ketamine but he hadn't reported any, not that she would expect him too if he did have any. Although his first case since his return had gone well this was something she didn't think he could deal with yet.

"Whatever Chase has isn't your fault. There's no need to make this your mission."

"He's my employee. I should be the attending."

"And you're my employee, which also makes Chase my employee. You're off his case and that's final." Cuddy got up to retrieve the paper on the floor and went back to work. She listened to the asymmetrical beats of House's walk and thought of how strong guilt could be if something went wrong or if something was overlooked. Wanting to spare him that pain shouldn't make her a bad person. "House, I know you can do your job," she added solemnly. House paused at the threshold, silently acknowledging her statement and the weight it carried. She hadn't lost faith in him. He walked out.

Left with only her mounds of work for company she sighed at went at it, ignoring the guilt that was already festering at the thought of Dr. Chase and his predicament. If it was some unusual affliction that Chase had contracted then she wasn't sure if Martin would catch it in time. They could loose Chase. On the other hand, if House was on the case and missed it too then she worried, maybe needlessly, that they could loose both.

H 

**End Chapter 3**


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: I don't own House. I'm not making any money off this story.

**Chapter 4**

Dr. Cameron watched through the glass wall as Dr. Tanaka took the blood samples from Chase's arm. The blinds were pulled but not completely closed and she could just make out Chase's blank face. Other than the fatigue and the slightly pinched features he gave no other indication of discomfort.

"What are you doing?" Foreman asked when he returned to her side. He'd gone to see if there was a way to sneak in and draw blood. A single point of entry and glass walls nixed his idea.

"Filling out the form to get the tests House wants." At the quiet corner of the nurse's station she checked the boxes on the form and wrote down the specific tests to be conducted.

"That's great except we have nothing to test."

"No, but he does." She tilted her head in the direction of Tanaka. She finished filling out the form and was about to sign it but Foreman stopped her.

"We can't requisition these tests. Off the case remember."

The both stilled in thought.

"Doctor Wilson can," Foreman announced. Cameron went to fake his signature and Foreman stopped her again. Her bubble handwriting would never pass as the illegible scrawl of Wilson.

"Let me." He took the pen and after a moment to recall Wilson's signature he signed. It was illegible.

"The lab won't be able to read that." Cameron said with a slight smile. "It's perfect." They'd excuse the different types of writing on the form as a nurse or another doctor writing it down and Wilson as the one actually ordering the test. So long as no one tried to page him the plan was foolproof. "Now we just need to slip it in with Tanaka's."

Luckily for them the half-Asian man left the form and samples, collected in a clear biohazard bag, at the other end of the nurse's station as he went to attend to another patient on the floor. With their window of opportunity briefly open they acted. Cameron drew the attention of the nearby nurse giving Foreman just enough time to slip their form between the pages of the other one.

Cameron smiled her thanks at the nurse and joined Foreman to walk away from the scene of the crime.

"It's done." The same shifty smile on his face crept over hers and they bopped fists in congratulation for a job well done.

H 

"What's so funny?"

Chase looked at the man who had only recently come into his life and replied. "Just…work…" His mind was too sluggish and he was too tired to properly explain why he was smiling. He'd watched through the blinds as Foreman and Cameron pulled off their little scheme. They'd gotten really good at it. He remembered Cameron and Foreman's reluctance early on to do anything that might be construed as questionable. When he'd started his fellowship he'd been surprised that the rumours about the infamous Dr. House hadn't been exaggerated. In fact there were numerous events that never made it outside the group. He'd been all too eager to do things in a way that was completely different from what his father would have done. He and House had gotten into a bit of trouble those first few months though they pulled out a win most of the time.

"We need another partner for these jobs. Cuddy is on to us," were House's exact words the day he'd given up battling Cuddy about hiring another fellow. A week later Cameron had come and Chase had been surprised. Not only was Dr. Cameron, immunologist, very pretty and very smart, she was uptight and strict. If they could turn her then no one would ever suspect her in one of their less than acceptable ploys –if they could turn her. Chase had given House a raised eyebrow but the older man had only made a comment about sharing.

Foreman's arrival had rounded out the group and in House's words 'provided them with priceless practical experience.'

René could only shrug at Chase's secretive smile. "O…kay…" he ventured, not quite following.

Chase smiled weakly and then closed his eyes. He could only sit there and imagine what had gone so wrong with his body that nobody was yet sure of the cause. He was worried. He was considering the possibility that he might be seeing his parents much sooner than he expected. He was scared… because he felt it getting worse, the fatigue, the discomfort. He felt a little better knowing that House and the rest of the team were on his case. He didn't know how far they would go to help him. He didn't want to hope that Cameron or House would risk their health to figure this out like they had for Foreman. That feeling of worthlessness, the inadequacy he felt everyone could always see just past his veneer of confidence and charm, was getting stronger. Who was he to ask so much of them when he was so paltry and selfish a person?

H 

Their triumphant return to the conference room was actually a subdued affair. During the walk back Foreman and Cameron had conversed about Chase and his symptoms and the likelihood that he was abusing drugs. Despite their efforts they couldn't find a diagnosis that fit all the symptoms completely. Cameron could tell that the situation was beginning to set in for Foreman just as it had for her and House. It was also bringing back unpleasant memories of his parasitic infection and the pain it had caused both during and after.

When they arrived House's mood didn't seemed to have improved either. They paused near the entrance. House was staring intently at the symptoms on the board as though the answer was written there but he just couldn't read it.

"You got the blood?"

"In a sense." He looked up at them. Cameron clarified. "Yes."

"Good." His focussed remained on the list of symptoms so Cameron and Foreman sat at the glass topped table.

Foreman began idly tapping a pen on the table as he thought through the symptoms. "Substance abuse still seems the most likely." No matter what he felt the evidence could not be ignored.

"Doesn't account for the trouble breathing," negated Cameron. "Sepsis?"

Foreman thought it was a reach. "Overwhelming infection of the blood from what?"

She shrugged and shook her head. "He hasn't been exposed to anything," she agreed.

"He went to Cotran's house," House said suddenly. "He was exposed to the same fungus."

Foreman thought it was possible but the evidence on the whiteboard was not in agreement. "He doesn't have the same symptoms."

"Same bug, different site. This time, the meningese."

"Fungal meningitis can be caused by B. dermatitis," Cameron said more to herself than the other two as she tried to deduce whether it was possible. "And it doesn't present with a fever."

"What about the gastric symptoms?" Foreman asked.

"He ate some bad clams," House said as he limped to the coffee maker. It was approaching three in the morning and he needed a hit of caffeine. "We need to do a lumbar puncture. And by we, I mean you."

"We're not even supposed to be on his case. We can't do it," said Cameron.

"You haven't even tried," House countered as he placed a filter in the coffee maker and ripped open a bag of dark roast, fine grind beans.

"We should tell Tanaka," Foreman agreed. "He'll tell Martin."

"And as soon as Marty hears the reference to one of my cases he'll know it was my suggestion."

"He's a doctor. He won't care!"

"He's a human being, of course he'll care," House scoffed at the neurologist. He set the small appliance to work and then headed for the door calling for the other doctors to follow. "We're going to need another player on our team. Actually he hits for the other team but I don't think he'll mind a temporary trade."

Allison frowned. Another sports metaphor.

H 

Rob watched as the nurse changed his oxygen to the small tank and secured it to the wheelchair. Off to the side Zinedine stood, also watching the nurse work but with unqualified trepidation. Robert didn't see what there was to be nervous about. Zid had gone to get a coffee and when he'd returned he'd asked the nurse if it would be alright to take him for a walk, figuratively of course. He was too drained to walk anywhere but getting out of this room would be nice. When he was a doctor, hospitals where fine. But when he played the patient he'd rather be anywhere else.

"And he'll be okay? This is safe?" Zinedine asked nervously.

The nurse smiled reassuringly at him. "It's perfectly safe. Just stay on this floor."

"Okay."

Chase was helped to the chair by both of them. He sank gratefully down into it, the minimal exertion of just standing and walking those few steps taking its toll. While his heart and O2 sat monitor was switched to the mobile unit to be wheeled around with them he tried to regain his bearings. He was peripherally aware of the onset of motion, the chairs wheels moving soundless on the polished floor. His thought process cleared of fatigue just as they rounded a corner. He tilted his head up to the nervous man pushing him around at a rather quick pace.

"What's going on?" he asked.

Rob watched Zid glance over his shoulder several times. He was definitely worried about something and anxiety began to gather in the sickly man as well. His fuddled mind conjured wild, nonsensical stories that had him in a mild panic. He didn't notice when they stopped in another room.

"Chase, you have to control your breathing!" a voice said sternly. "Shut that thing up." The rapid beeping of the monitor was silenced. "Chase, look at me!" Finally the dull eyes opened revealing the sight of House knelt before him. "We need to do a lumbar puncture. You might have meningitis."

"I can't have meningitis."

"Why not?"

"Because….because I don't have meningitis."

House and René looked at each other.

"That sounds more like dementia than depression," said Cameron as she and Foreman walked in with what they needed for the procedure.

"Get him on the bed," House ordered as he tried to stand. After a bit of resistance he accepted René's silent offer of help.

Foreman and Cameron placed the tools they'd need on the trolley in the room and began to help their colleague out of the chair. They couldn't do more than set the brakes for the wheel-chair before Chase was trying to fight them off.

"No! Leave me alone!" He slapped away the hands that tried to touch him.

"Chase, we need to do the LP. Just relax," Foreman placated half-heartedly as he and Cameron attempted to manhandle him out of the chair by force.

"I don't want an LP!" He shoved Foreman away and twisted out of Cameron's grip. Pain in his mid-section flared in protest to the commotion. He hunched over, cradling his stomach while keeping his wary eyes on the immunologist and neurologist he'd worked with for nearly two years.

"Chase."

The wild eyes shifted to the unshaven man.

"You have to let us do this," House told him evenly.

A shallow exhale was coloured with a short whimper of pain as the pain in his head began to pound. He couldn't think. This wasn't making any sense. He knew he didn't need whatever they wanted to do to him. This wasn't right.

"Rob." The familiar voice and light touch to his shoulder turned him to Zinedine. "Please, let them help."

Robert stared at him for several seconds barely comprehending the words spoken. He turned his gaze to House.

"You just have to trust me for a few minutes," House said. He knew there was no way to logically convince Chase he needed the procedure. He wasn't thinking clearly. Cameron was right it wasn't depression. They still needed to do the procedure and the only way Chase would agree was if he trusted them. Trusted him.

"Rob, please," Zinedine begged, stroking his thumb across the smooth skin just at the junction of Chase's neck and shoulder.

For several seconds the only motion to his body was the occasional blink and the shaky breaths. Finally he responded. "Okay."

Cameron and Foreman immediately went into action, moving the unresisting Chase to the bed and preparing for the LP. House continued stared at the wheelchair where his youngest fellow had been, feeling awed and ashamed at the same time. René noticed him and gave a low huff of disdain catching House's attention.

All he said was, "Yeah, he trusts you. Even if you don't deserve it." He went to Rob leaving House isolated off to the side.

"All right, Chase you know how this works," said Cameron reassuringly. She was seated on a stool facing Chase's pale back. On the other side was René holding one of Chase's hands and the other resting comfortingly on his shoulder. She met the worried man's eyes over the body of her friend and once lover. Conveying with a brief smile that everything would be fine she began with Foreman assisting.

Iodine was used to clean the skin before she numbed the area with lidocaine. "You're going to feel some pressure." She reminded. She pressed the needle into his back between a pair of lumbar vertebrae.

Chase's face pinched as the uncomfortable force of the needle pressed into him. He clenched his teeth trying to remain silent and still. A small voice in his mind told him to get away, that they were trying to paralyse him. A louder more rational voice reminded him of his medical training and the purpose of a lumbar puncture and he stayed still.

"Almost done," Cameron soothed.

Chase breathed shallow and waited for the discomfort to end.

The clear tawny liquid dripped from the needle into the waiting plastic vial. When she had enough Cameron capped it and handed it off to Foreman. She started to slowly remove the needle from Chase's back, her face contorting with displeasure as she felt a shudder pass through the body beneath her hand. She breathed a haggard sigh of relief when the needle was out. The small spot of blood stood out in sharp contrast with rest of the expanse of pale skin. She dabbed it up with a cotton ball and then pressed a bandage to the puncture wound.

"You have to stay flat for half an hour," Cameron said as she helped René turn Chase onto his back. When she saw his face she froze, struck but the slight discolouration of his features. A tinge of yellow tinted his pale white skin and the white of his eyes.

House stared too. Jaundice didn't fit the diagnosis. Jaundice meant a build up of bilirubin. The problem was associated with Chase's liver and in his experience most liver problems people do to themselves. The lumbar puncture was going to be negative for the fungus, he was certain. It might tell them something else but for now he'd subjected a weak patient to an unnecessary procedure.

"What is it?" René asked still seated next to the bed. The look on the three doctor's faces wasn't at all reassuring. When Dr. House had explained to him (with patience that had surprised Cameron and Foreman) that they needed his help to do an important procedure he'd been uneasy. The idea of going behind Dr. Martin's back had not settled well with him but Rob's life might have been on the line. He'd had no choice. Now he was wondering whether the other choice, the one he'd thought he didn't have, would have been the right one.

"Seven," Chase mumbled. "That's why it didn't work." His eyes were half closed and unfocussed.

"Rob?"

"Can't have odd," he continued faintly. "There are only two..."

"He's not making any sense."

Cameron, closest to him, shone a light in Chase's eyes and watched the pupil response. "Whatever he has, it's getting worse."

"Do the tests," House addressed Foreman, "and any others you can think of."

He left with a nodd.

"Do you have any idea what's wrong with him?" René asked anxiously.

House stepped forward, displacing René from the bedside. "Chase. What aren't you telling us?"

The blonde man mumbled incoherently.

House pulled the oxygen mask from his face. "Chase! What haven't you told us?"

"House, he needs that!" Cameron protested, reaching over Chase to grab the mask. House held it out of her reach.

The man on the bed began to gasp. On the monitor the oxygen saturation numbers began to drop and the heart rate climbed.

"Is there anything you haven't told us?" House demanded watching careful for a reaction that might be drowned out but his respiratory distress.

"Volumes," Chase croaked, taking the question literally.

"Anything medically relevant!"

Chase shook his head, still gasping.

"House!" Cameron lunged for and retrieved the mask. She slipped it back over Chase's face. Once his breathing returned to a more normal rhythm she turned to the diagnostician. She'd seen him treat patients like this before, but this was Chase. He was frustrated, they all were, but she didn't expect him to treat a patient he knew like this.

The shock and disappointment in her brown eyes had House looking away. He strode quickly from the room. His diagnosis was wrong. They'd all been wrong, and not just wrong but way off. Maybe he wasn't making sense anymore. After his success with Cotran he'd thought he was fine, ready more than ever to return to his job, the only thing that made him worthwhile. It was beginning to look like he'd lost that too. Lost, the word lingered in his mind. And Chase was still getting worse.

René returned with Chase to his hospital room not too long later. Although Tanaka had been a little worried by their absence he didn't suspect anything. The results of the blood test came back a while later and then he had to interrogate the patient.

H 

"Fulminant hepatic failure!" Cameron's angry voice announced as a set of lab results was thrust in House's face. Already irritated he snatched them from her and read. Elevated LDH and bilirubin pointed to haemolysis and hepatic failure. The high biblirubin accounted for the jaundice and the haemolytic anaemia accounted for the shortness of breath and rapid heart beat. "They're going to give him a transfusion and he may need to go on dialysis if there's been damage to his kidneys." House turned the page as saw the elevated creatinine because of diminishing kidney function.

"So what's the aetiology?"

"I don't know. Acetaminophen is the obvious culprit but he's only taken a few Tylenol and the blood work agrees with him." She spun around and headed for the door. "But I'm going to find out," which House took as meaning that she was going to break into Chase's apartment.

"Wait," House called as he rushed to catch up.

Cameron drove to Chase's apartment after taking his keys from his jacket when he and René weren't looking. In the passenger seat House sat silently. She shifted her eyes to the right so that she could see him but didn't look directly. She was still a little angry with him for how he'd treated Chase but now she was thinking that he was right. Drugs or alcohol could cause liver failure so she was going to search his place to find out if that was so. Chase had denied it to her and everybody but as House always says, everybody lies.

House gazed out the window taking in none of the passing scenery on the short drive to Chase's place. He knew where his intensivist lived though he'd never been there. He wasn't expecting to find anything, drugs or otherwise, in the apartment. The symptoms fit with liver failure but what he was still having problems with was the timeline. All the symptoms manifested within 36 hours. There were two likely possibilities. It could be that Chase had been taking a lot of drugs recently, but since none were found in his system that couldn't be true. The second theory was that he'd been taking drugs for a while now and the damage had finally caught up with him, but that couldn't be true either because then the symptoms would have shown up more gradually. The evidence excluded the two theories.

So why go to Chase's apartment? It was something to do. It was past 4am, he was tired, cranky and frustrated. And he'd forgotten his coffee. Perhaps there was a clue to Chase's affliction in his apartment and if there wasn't, then it was still a good opportunity to look into the life of his fellow, a life that Chase tried unsuccessfully to keep as far away from work as possible.

They pulled into the small apartment complex. It wasn't very classy and it was a little on the old-in-a-bad-way side, not at all what one would have expected for a guy as rich as they all thought Chase was. They got into the building easily enough by convincing one of the sleepy residents that they were visiting an enfeebled friend who couldn't make it to the door. The early hour made anybody amenable to anything. They could have introduced themselves as aliens looking for hash and still made it in.

The elevator dropped them off at the third floor and 309 was their final destination. The key unlocked the door with a soft click opening a domain secret to both of them. Chase's sanctuary was a bachelor apartment, brick walls connecting hardwood floors to the high ceiling. The entrance opened to a small carpet between the living and kitchen area with the sleeping area separated from the kitchen/living room by a small partition. It was smaller than they'd expected and far neater. Chase when he dressed almost always looked like he'd just grabbed something from his closet with his eyes closed; sometimes it matched, sometimes it didn't. The apartment however, was impeccably, neurotically neat.

The two split up, Cameron stepping softly through the loft to the sleeping area as though somebody might hear. With no added care House walked to the living room. He glanced at the black couch and matching black arm-chair, the low coffee table and the television set as he passed them. He skipped his view across the shelves on one of the walls where books and a few personal artefacts were neatly arranged.

"A place for everything and everything with its place," House said to himself. To him an apartment this neat, meant a mind that was a complete mess. He supposed that it was Mrs. Chase's influence, the drunk. Imagining a younger Robert Chase trying to take care of himself and his stumbling mother had him looking down at the floor and resting heavily on the shelving unit for a short moment. He could see in his minds-eye the child trying to exercise his will on a chaotic world, trying to fix what was broken only to find himself broken as well.

"His place is clean." The voice ripped him away from thought and back to the present. He must have been standing there for a while, because with his returned awareness came a slight pain in his leg and he wasn't in the mood to tough it out. He popped a pill, ignoring the look Cameron tried to give him.

"No alcohol? Drugs?"

"No drugs but a nearly full bottle of painkillers. There were two beers in the fridge but no hard liquor."

House reached up to right a picture frame that had been placed face down. It was one of the few personal objects he'd observed in the apartment. Judging from the dust gathered on the back, it had been lying that way for sometime. When he saw the image in the frame House understood why. The frame held a picture of the late Rowan Chase and a pretty blonde woman, presumably the former Mrs. Chase. They looked young and happy.

"His parent?" Cameron asked.

"Mmm," was his wordless reply. "Got his mother's looks." He handed the frame to Cameron and walked to the corner of the room. A large black trunk supported a small stand with sheet music scattered on top and a guitar leaned against the wall. He looked at the pages of music and recalled Chase saying during his interview that he played the guitar. House hadn't been impressed and Chase hadn't said it to impress him. Wilson had been the one who asked about any hobbies he had.

At the back of the stack of loose papers he found an anomaly. Chase hadn't said anything about playing the violin. The Devil's Trill wasn't the type of music somebody accidentally buys thinking it was a guitar piece. Most people would have tried to show off their musical inclinations in their interview, only to have House ridicule them because as an accomplished pianist and general smart-guy he probably knew just as much if not more than they did. He replaced the papers.

Cameron glanced around the apartment with some unease. This situation shouldn't feel different than the others had. She'd been sent to enough patients' homes to know where to look and how to do it quickly and she could only recall feeling this guilty during the earlier B&E's. The added rush to leave came from the heightened sense of intrusion in this case. This wasn't the home of a stranger who was withholding vital information. "There's nothing here. We should get back," Cameron suggested. She was already on her way to the door.

House followed Cameron out but he didn't agree with her. It was all here, in this hauntingly tranquil apartment, he just needed time to find and make sense of it.

H 

"CSF was normal. They've given him methelyene-blue for the slightly elevated methemoglobin, glucose for the hypoglycaemia, enhanced diuresis to protect his kidney function…but he's started to have seizures," Foreman reported a soon as House and Cameron walked in the front doors.

"Hepatic encephalopathy is progressing. He's going to have permanent brain damage or need a transplant if this keeps up," said Cameron solemnly.

"Maybe not. I ran some more tests on his blood." He decided to skip his cunning plan and execution of said plan and go right to the results. "His lever enzymes are elevated." He handed House a piece of paper with the results listed. "Serum GOT is three-ten and serum GPT is two-seventy. It could be Reye's syndrome."

"Reye's strikes children, usually after viral infections," said House with his brows furrowed in thought. Though it didn't often hit adults it was possible, the symptoms fit. Great, they had a disease with no proven underlying cause. Then again they had a sick colleague with no proven underlying cause. It was perfect. It was also incurable. If Chase had this and they caught it early enough they could treat the symptoms and protect his vital organs. Otherwise, untimely death was a possible outcome.

"Chase has been scheduled for a liver biopsy and a CT. Martin was beginning to think adrenal crisis but…" Foreman left the statement open.

"When did Martin start thinking?" House mumbled still flipping through the pages. "A couple of hours ago he was ready to send Chase home with a diagnosis of food poisoning."

"Well a couple of hours ago it probably looked like food poisoning."

They made their way to Chase's room on the fourth floor. When they stepped out of the lift, Foreman turned right while the other two turned left. "His rooms this way," Cameron informed.

"Not anymore. Chase has been moved to the ICU."

"Because of the seizures?"

"They're…bad." He didn't know how else to put it. He'd been giving Chase a test to measure any alterations in his mental state when Martin came in and caught him. During the ensuing argument, which included Foreman, Martin, Tanaka and René, Chase had begun to seize. The spasms had been violent and the shock in the wide eyes of the victim had been more disturbing than any of the witnesses wanted to admit. Some diazepam had stopped the seizure but there were tiny tremors, like aftershocks for several minutes post. Through it all Chase was conscious and the discomfort plaguing his body was now portrayed vividly across his strained features. The move to the ICU had been after the second seizure and after seeing the effects it had on his heart.

"With his liver function falling and his kidneys going too they moved him to the ICU to make sure he didn't go into arrest. If he does…that might be it."

Cameron's eyebrows shifted minutely closer together, crinkling the skin at the top of her nose. She looked at Foreman in moderate confusion. They had numerous pieces of equipment designed to resuscitate somebody in arrest. This seemed overly cautious.

Foreman shook his head at her questioning look. "Chase has a DNR."

House for all his disability still moved pretty quickly when the situation called for it. A few seconds after hear the acronym he was through the double doors and down the corridor leaving his remaining two fellows to catch up. Dr. Martin saw him coming and tried to intervene. House bulldozed right past him and burst into the ICU ward where Chase was sleeping.

The dark shadows around the closed eyes, the yellow tinge to his skin and the stiff posture in which he lay even while dozing only incensed House further. Chase was not going to die of some mystery illness, some ailment that House couldn't figure out and then cure. And most of all he was not going to just give up, Greg wouldn't let him.

"You idiot! What the hell are you thinking?" House yelled disturbing another patient in the room. Chase stirred as well and the fading blue-green eyes slipped open. "If you want to kill yourself you can do it after I fix you!"

"Leave him alone!" House was suddenly shoved away by the patient's boyfriend. "It was his decision and you've got no right to oppose it!"

"I'm not going to debate life and death with someone who's tried to off himself before." House glared down at René's forearms. Wide-eyed the other man pulled down the long sleeves of his shirt that he'd rolled up earlier, covering the faded scars on his wrists.

"You can't just force people to do what you want them to!"

"I won't just watch as he does something stupid!"

"Dr. House," another voice interrupted the argument. "He didn't sign the DNR today." House eventually turned to Tanaka. "It's been in his file for nearly two years."

There was a pause to digest the information. House turned his head back to Chase, meeting the drowsy gaze and wondering what else he didn't know. House didn't meet anyone else's eyes as he breezed out almost as quickly as he had in. He heard two sets of footsteps fall in behind him and didn't glance back to confirm his suspicion that it was Cameron and Foreman.

"Suggest Reye's to Tanaka and Martin. CSF was clear for everything?" he stated more than asked. Foreman nodded in accord, though House didn't see. "Tell them that too." Foreman broke step and retraced the path back to the ICU

"Where are you going?" asked Cameron, still walking with him.

"Men's room. No chicks allowed." The House-ish comment was delivered with a distinct lack of House-flare. He ducked in the men's washroom before she could call him on it or on his strange behaviour in general. She glanced around the mostly deserted corridor and then leaned against the wall near the door marked "Men" below the crude stick figure. If she was a bolder person, she would have followed him inside but with House it was equally likely that he'd actually have to relieve himself or that he'd call Cuddy at six in the morning and yell at her after she'd spent a very late night working. She was betting on the later and when House's raised voice carried through the heavy washroom door a moment later she knew she was right.

"You didn't think you should tell me?"

"It was none of your business," Cuddy's voice, soft with sleep, told him. "It still isn't"

"It's my business to know if my employee is suicidal!"

"He's not suicidal! He's had the same advanced directive in all the hospitals he's worked for." Chase had only worked for a few hospitals; some during his clerkship, another during his residency and then PPTH, but all of a few was still all. She paused considering the situation and the conversation then asked, "What are you still doing at the hospital? I told you it wasn't your case."

Greg's face pinched in minor annoyance. "Let's stay on topic. We're talking about what you and Chase did."

"We didn't do anything wrong! I know withholding irrelevant information is a capital offence on your planet but the hospital is mine."

"You could have given me a heads up," He mumbled with a little less anger, his misdirected rage fading.

"I know you're worried but House, go home. Get some rest and let Martin take care of Chase."

House did a one-eighty in the empty washroom as he replied. "I've been letting Martin take care of him and he's just gotten worse. If I continue to do the same thing and expect a different outcome, such as Chase getting better…I think that's the definition of insanity."

"House!" a brief warning call came from Cameron outside the washroom. He faced the door just in time to see Dr. Martin stride in. Greg hoped that other doctor was just coming to use the facilities but he was never that lucky.

"You kidnapped my patient and gave him an unnecessary lumbar puncture? You could have made his condition worse! Stop interfering!"

House dropped the phone from his ear. "I've been consulting."

"I didn't ask for your help!"

"House is that Martin?" a small voice from the cell phone's earpiece asked.

"You should have!"

Martin just shook his head. Nobody could get through to House except Wilson and maybe Cuddy. "Dr. Cuddy will hear about this," was his parting threat before walking out.

"Should have holed up in the women's room. He couldn't have followed me there."

"House!"

He brought he phone back to his ear. "What?"

"Sounds like you've earned yourself double clinic hours." His shoulders slumped briefly in defeat but perked up when he considered that if he already had the punishment he might as well go all out. That's when Cuddy spoke again. "If you don't want triple I suggest you send Cameron and Foreman home, go home yourself and get some sleep." Like I'm trying to do, her mind whined.

"Fine." He snapped the phone closed and there might have been another snap mixed in with the one the phone closing usually made. Greg didn't even shrug. If it were broken Jimmy would eventually get so annoyed with him that he'd get him a new one.

Cameron was still out there when he exited.

"Go home." He walked quickly past her.

She didn't follow him but when she turned to take another path, it wasn't to the exit.

After convincing the nurses that she just wanted to sit with her friend Cameron was allowed in. She sat unobtrusively in the room. Close enough to see the monitors and have a clear view of René and Chase, whose mouth and nose was still covered by a clear plastic mask, but far enough that she didn't have to be brought into their conversation. Chase was thinking clearly for the moment but the spells of delirium came and went without warning and were lasting longer. For now he was all right and they spoke softly but there words were clear. From her vantage she observed them and couldn't help the slight smile

Chase weakly shook his head. "You're not touching my car."

"Come on when am I going to get another chance like this?"

Robert took a deep breath before responding. "I know what you did to Mike's car."

"I fixed it," he said indignantly. "Besides that was ages ago. I have my own garage now."

"It's not yours."

"It will be soon."

Robert inhaled before attempting to speak. "Not good enough."

"You barely drive it! It's a nineteen-seventies Chevy Monte Carlo and most of the time it sits in your parking space. Just let me have it for a few days and I'll make it purr. I'll even give it a new paint job."

"There's nothing wrong with…my car."

"Have I taught you nothing?" Robert just smiled sleepily. Zid smiled back. "Get some sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

"You have to go to work," he countered through a yawn. His eyes drifted closed during René's response and soon he was asleep.

In the corridor the rubber-soled sneakers of the nurses squeaked along. Natural light tinted an early-morning orange gave the corridor a lovely amber glow. It didn't reach to the entrance to this particular ward of the ICU, as though the gloom of the room and the dire situation of the patients within held it at bay and coveted the night's dark. Allison had fallen asleep in her chair as had Zinedine who dropped off a few minutes after Rob. The turmoil and tension of the past several hours were calling their debts and sleep took them. Foreman, who'd claimed twenty minutes ago to be wide-awake, was also asleep, sprawled in the comfortable armchair in House's office. Feet resting on the well-padded ottoman and a medical pathology book opened across his lap, his head tilted to the side at an angle that would likely leave him with an ache when he woke up.

At House's desk was House. He'd tilted his rolling-chair as far back as the mechanism would allow to stare up at the ceiling. It was an unspectacular white colour but his mind wasn't on the paint, it was on his patient, his fellow, his responsibility. He sat there for a long time, just thinking. The light outside became brighter and the noise in the corridor increased gradually until the usual bustle of nurses, doctors and patients returned. The rest of the time-zone was awake, the diagnostics team was asleep, and House was still staring at the ceiling.

"Heard you had a rough night," said a well-known voice.

Greg titled the chair to the upright position. "Morning," he greeted, too tired for his usual insulting inquiry about James' choice of clothing or to ask why he was in so early.

"How is he?" James walked in, darting a glance at the exhausted neurologist but not referring to him in his question. He placed a paper bag on House's desk. "Breakfast," he indicated.

The older doctor nodded his thanks but didn't move to get the food. "He's still deteriorating. He'll have permanent brain damage if I don't figure this out soon." Greg shifted his gaze at the Magic Eight ball resting on the corner of his desk. He gave into the temptation and grabbed it. He shook it, asked a silent question and then inverted it to read the ball's response.

"I'm surprised Cuddy let you have this case."

Greg responded without looking up. "She didn't. Technically Martin is the attending."

"So I should be preparing to have Martin glaring at me for the next several months?" It always turned out that if House pissed someone off he was complained to about it, or bore part of the brunt of odium that Greg had earned all by himself. He wasn't quite sure how that happened but it had become the norm and not worth looking very far into.

"Probably."

James sat down in a chair opposite and stared unwaveringly at his friend until finally the blue eyes flicked over to him. "This isn't your fault." Clear and complete recollection of the wrath House had thrown at him when Foreman was in quarantine had Wilson silently thanking Cuddy for trying to distance House from Chase's case. That time a patient had transferred his affliction to one of House's fellows but it was a hazard of the job, a hazard Greg had felt responsible for. Chase, as far as James knew, hadn't caught his current illness from a patient. "Sometimes-"

"If you're going to give me the 'ashes to ashes' speech you can stop right there," Greg interrupted looking blankly at his toy. "I've heard it before. It was bullshit then," he spun the novelty eight ball between his palms, "and it's still bullshit now."

The tone, the determination and the words all came together and James came to a sudden and startling conclusion. House cared. For most people this revelation wouldn't have been so surprising however, this was Gregory House, a man who could and would cheerfully knock you on your ass with a few well chosen words and then use his twisted logic to say you deserved it. Naturally abrasive and distant by design, a glimpse of true compassion from this man was akin in rarity to a solar eclipse and more fascinating. That it should be drawn out by Chase could only mean that the young man had somehow wormed his way close to House, perhaps all his ducklings had. They'd lasted the longest with the diagnostician; Chase likely to be the first person to ever finish a full fellowship under him. James thought that deserved some kind of medal.

Maybe the prize was Greg's friendship, if not that maybe a little respect. No matter how strongly he knew House would deny it, James already knew that Chase and this situation was no longer just a puzzle, a distraction from his life. And it was supposed to be a good thing –the old Greg, the less closed-off and aloof one rearing his head –so why was James feeling a little jealous. The first inkling that he was getting better emotionally and it wasn't directed at him, Greg's closest and best friend.

This was something he could deal with later. Right now House and Chase were having problems of there own and Wilson would be there for support, even if it wasn't appreciated or, in House's case, wanted.

"You're only human," James mumbled. Only human but less spectacular an anomaly and more anomalous a human being with each day. He stood taking his briefcase with him, wondering how it was his friendship with the diagnostician lead to these insights.

"Chase will be okay," Wilson said, passing through the doorway. He was worried for the young man, more due to of House's uncertainty that he could help him than by any of the symptoms but he kept those worries hidden.

"What makes you so sure," House asked.

"A hunch."

Hunch or not, after he went to his office and checked his messages, he'd stopped by to see Chase for himself before beginning his rounds and his workday. But he wasn't going to say good-bye. He'd say that when the look in Greg's eyes changed. When the determination turned desperation and the blaze of his genius became wilder, then he would say good-bye. He'd drag Greg kicking and screaming to do the same because he cared and it would hurt more later on if he didn't say it then.

H 

Despite the best of efforts, at 10:53 am Robert N. Chase fell into a coma. Anxiety climbed in the primary physician, leaving him and his team scurrying around to try to figure out the mystery that continued to progress. Cameron who'd been loitering in the area after she and René had been kicked out of the ICU had been there when the EEG hooked up to her unconscious colleague indicated the decreased brain function. She walked calmly to the diagnostic department –the two rooms devoted to it –and on the whiteboard added the latest symptom.

Foreman's mug of coffee clicked loudly in the quiet room as his tired muscles lost the will the hold it up. He stared blankly at the last symptom, possible diagnoses drifting sluggishly through his mind but none fitting entirely. Next to him, House stared and resumed tapping his fingers on the glass tabletop.

"Ideas people," came the demand.

"Reye's Syndrome."

He didn't even turn to tell him how dumb the repetition was. "New ideas!"

"Isoniazid hepatoxicity," Foreman said vapidly.

"Perfect, if he was on isoniazid therapy." The suggestion did tickle something in the back of his mind but his inability to name that something had him lashing out, albeit almost lifelessly, at his silent fellow. "Suggestions, Cameron, otherwise go make yourself useful somewhere else. Looking pretty isn't enough here."

She didn't rise to the bait. "Everything we come up with has a high mortality. Not matter what we diagnose he's going to end up dead." She was uncharacteristically pessimistic and it drew Foreman's attention. He gave her a few words of comfort in his usual rough manner but it did the trick for both of them. Foreman had a problem he could fix and Cameron felt a little better.

While those two were trying to re-establish their emotional balance something had clicked in House's head. 'End up dead,' Cameron had said. He scanned through the pages of notes the doctors had made.

"What are you looking for?" Foreman asked after several seconds of House's searching.

"Poison."

Foreman slouched back in his chair. "It's not food poisoning and we've checked for everything else. Lead, mercury, copper, pesticides."

"Acetaminophen, barbiturates, opiates, alchohol," Cameron carried on the list.

"There's more ways than that to kill someone," House countered.

"Nobody is trying to kill Chase," said Foreman over his coffee cup. He'd raised it to his lips again but hadn't made any more of an effort to drink the dark liquid that was already cold.

"How would you know?" House didn't think that there was a hit out on Chase either but his idea said that there was. Either that or… "What has he ingested recently? And yes I know it's not food poisoning."

Foreman retrieved the relevant page from his notes. "Some coffee, nutri-grain bars, chocolate, pasta, juice…that's about it."

"Reverse order from onset of the headache," the senior doctor demanded.

Foreman gave an irritate huff but began going backwards through the list from the time of the headache. "Uh…chocolate bar the afternoon of…lunch was pasta from the caf… before that coffee…a nutrigrain bar…"

"No mushrooms?"

"I think he would have mentioned mushrooms," Foreman said.

House nodded. "Which is why we didn't consider poisonous mushrooms as a possibility. Draw some blood, look for monomethlyhydrazine."

"MMH? From…" Cameron tried to recall where that particular chemical came from. Her fatigue- and anxiety-fogged mind was a little too slow.

"Rocket fuel or the more likely source in this case, from gyromitrin," House supplied. "Water-soluble and found in mushrooms that conveniently grow on roadsides."

"He would have told us if he had wild mushrooms." Foreman again. "You think somebody sprinkled it in his lunch?"

"Did you miss the water-soluble part? It was probably in his coffee."

Cameron stood slowly, unsure whether House was serious or not. "If you're right somebody tried to kill him."

"No. If I'm right someone tried to kill me." Again.

H 

**End Chapter 4**


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: House not mine, Chase not mine, Wilson….also not mine, other House characters not mine…not getting any money…really could use some…

**Chapter 5**

H 

House explained his diagnosis to Martin, more politely than anyone would have imagined. When Martin didn't agree and refused House access to the patient, House did precisely what everyone would have imagined. He jabbed the shorter man hard in the stomach and then went past him into the ICU.

"What's going on?"

"Poison," House explained succinctly to the voice of his intensivist's friend. "I have the cure." He held up the bag of clear solution he'd brought with him. "If you want me to save him then hold them off." He flicked a hand at the entrance where people were beginning to gather and nurses were trying to get through.

House arrived at his fellow's bedside and didn't waste anytime looking back to see what the noise was about. All he needed was a few seconds to hang the bag and attach the line. He finished just as security pulled him away form the supine patient. He was manhandled out of the ICU and placed in plastic ties. He saw that René was similarly bound.

"He needs the B-six," House tried to tell Martin again but the man glared at him. "Gyromitrin poisoning fits everything!"

"You have no proof," Martin said. He tried to mask the little bit of hesitation in his voice. House who was looking for anything that might work in his favour picked up on it.

"We'll have proof in an hour," he lied. They'd have to rush the test and risk a false result to get it done that quickly. Martin didn't look convinced. He headed for the ICU entrance. House tried to block his way but a security guard held him back. "If I'm wrong, he gets a little more vitamin B6 and a nice shiny coat. If you're wrong he'll die!"

That was enough to halt Martin. Everybody assembled turned his or her gaze to Martin and House already knew what he was going to do: take the safe route. House had purposely and severely understated the possible effects of pyridoxine toxicity but he was confident that before that occurred Chase would either be getting better or there'd be no change and they'd stop treatment. Martin likely knew it too so it was no surprise when he nodded. As House and René were dragged away by security Martin could be heard giving orders to the nurses to watch Dr. Chase's progress very carefully.

H 

Two hours later gas-liquid chromatography confirmed the presence of MMH. It couldn't have come from the transfusion Chase had been given so House was right. Cameron returned to the conference room to tell House. She arrived to find both it and the office empty.

Foreman went straight to the ICU with the results to find that Martin already knew and the treatment had already begun. House wasn't around either which surprised him but he shrugged it off and returned to the conference room.

Unbeknownst to the immunologist and neurologist their boss, the diagnostician was in the office of the hospital's chief administrator being reamed a new one.

"Assaulting a doctor! That's a new low for you!"

Staring unconcernedly down at the floor House pondered that their scales were the inverse of each other. He would have said it was a new high for him. Doctors rank higher than patients right?

"How many times did I tell you to stay off this case? It was for your own good!"

"What' the big deal?" House finally interjected in his defence. "I cured him."

Cuddy glared. "Is that what this was about to you? Just proving you could do your job, that you could beat Martin in your own game? Dr. Chase should not have been your rope in a juvenile tug-of-war!"

"I saved him!"

His firm statement brought a pause to her tirade.

"Yeah, you did." She walked around to the back of her desk and sat in the chair. "And you also broke any number of rules." She stared at him and his eyes flitted around the room waiting for the axe to fall. And it did. "You're suspended for one week, starting tomorrow. When you get back you've still got double clinic duty for two weeks." His mouth opened. "Don't make this worse House," Cuddy interrupted ending his protest before it could start. "The police have been called about the poisoning. You will stay and talk to them. Full co-operation or else." Her point across she bowed her head and went back to the papers needing her attention.

"Fine."

When she glanced up the door was closing and House was out of sight a second later.

H 

House was sure it was the Starbucks coffee he'd given Chase two days ago. Gyromitrin being water-soluble meant that the water in the coffee could have been loaded with the substance. All the assailants would have had to do is soak the false morel mushrooms in the water to draw out the poison and then use the warm water to make coffee. The near sickening amount of sugar in the drink had likely masked any strange flavours the poison would have had.

He gave the police a description of the couple that had given him the coffee. The police would conduct their own investigation and try to link with direct evidence the poison to the coffee to the couple. For that they'd need to talk to Dr. Chase as well as other hospital staff. Chase's interview would probably have to wait a few days and if there was brain damage they may never get one or any useful information from it.

The two detectives conducting the interview didn't leave until three that afternoon and House didn't get the impression they were the brightest crayons in the box. Overworked and underpaid he doubted whether the cops would find the attempted murders and if there would be enough evidence to convict them if they were caught.

Once the detectives had left the hospital House went to the ICU where Chase was still in a coma. Technically visitors weren't allowed in the ICU but Zinedine, who House hadn't seen since they were both dragged away by security, had insisted to be by Chase's side. As a doctor, even one soon to be on suspension, House thought he could be afforded the same exception. He sat down in the empty chair. A white pill was popped into his mouth and swallowed dry a second later.

He hadn't taken a pain killer in a while and his leg was bothering him now. After everything that had happened he figured he was due.

House let his eyes follow Chase's blanket-covered form, measuring visually his dimensions and counting his slow breaths. The limp hand nearest him had the heart and oxygen-saturation monitor clipped to the middle finger and the hospital admission bracelet around his wrist. Robert Nicholas Chase, DOB: Nov. 19, 1978 read the print on the plastic band. Ensconced in the layers of blankets, eyes closed and golden hair in an almost fashionable state of disarray, the young man looked barely twenty of his twenty-seven years. The bangs that Chase usually swept off to the side were taking residence on the smooth, pale forehead making him look that much younger and that much more vulnerable.

Greg resisted the urge to brush the strands away. They really bothered him for some reason. Maybe because they emphasized how serious the situation was for this man –though, right then he looked like a boy –and his mind continued to stress that it should be him lying there right now. Was Chase in pain –pain meant for him? Was his life going to end here? Was he dreaming? Running towards a white light that promised a reunion with the family he'd lost long before his mother died as a result of her alcoholism and before his father was lost to cancer.

The silent man glanced around. Nobody was near. He reached over the prone man to gently caress the blonde hair away from the forehead. He drew his hand back and snorted. Chase still looked painfully young, and tragically frail.

"Chase…Robert…you better wake up," he both begged and threatened. He didn't examine why he was so desperate. He wasn't quite ready to be that honest with himself.

"It's going to work," Cameron's voice came from behind him a moment before she walked into his field of view. House quickly measured her expression, her mood, and left his shoulders relax as he deduced she had not seen what he'd just done or heard what he'd just said. "His methemoglobin isn't greatly elevated and Foreman said the pyridoxine's already helping." He didn't meet her reassuring gaze. He nodded once and then fled.

Cameron and Foreman made it their job to check on Chase. They kept House, who didn't go back to see Chase again, informed on his progress. Around 10:20 that evening Robert Chase awoke to the rest of the world. Groggy and confused he did little more than mumble unintelligibly to those around him before falling into normal sleep.

The hospital gossip train quickly spread the word that Dr. Chase was awake. Only an announcement over the P.A. would have been faster. A nurse went to Dr. Wilson's office to inform him as well. When she entered and saw that the oncologist was with someone she almost retreated under the assumption the other person was a patient. The other man turned to the newcomer and revealed himself just to be House. The nurse quickly passed on the news and left.

"It's amazing the effect I have on people," Greg mused as though he hadn't heard what the nurse said.

James nodded his head. "I would agree to that." He put his signature on the bottom of a page. "It's also amazing the effect you don't have on people. Y'know, the warm fuzzies?"

"That's what I keep you around for."

"Nobody else would put up with you." James glanced up. "Go see him, House."

"No."

The unusually blunt response piqued the oncologist's interest. He gave the older man his full attention. "Why not?"

Greg didn't answer. "You ever get the feeling everything bad you've done has come back to haunt you?" That was a partly rhetoric and partly serious question.

"'When it rains, it pours', is a cliché for a reason."

"Tacky. Yes, I agree."

"Everybody experiences it." James tilted his head to the side. "This isn't your fault."

"That poison was meant for me."

James didn't tell him that if he had taken it, they might not have figured out what was wrong before he died.

House gave a brisk shake of his head, clearing out the unwanted thoughts. The guilt was his –a companion to replace the physical pain cured by the ketamine. He almost welcomed it.

"Where you going?" James asked watching Greg stand and head for the door.

"Home. May as well get started on my vacation."

James didn't correct him. Suspensions had been so common for House at one time that they probably felt like vacations. It wasn't like he actually missed the patients he was forced to deal with.

"By the way," Greg paused a few feet from the door, "Zinedine René, or whatever his name is, is gone for now. This is your chance to make a move on his boy-toy."

"House," James practically growled the warning.

Greg tilted his head to the side. "Just think of him, lying so helpless and scared on the bed. I hear vulnerability is a turn on for pathological carers."

"And for people who don't care at all." The irritated glower directed at the scruffy doctor's was wasted as the man walked out without seeing it. James exhaled with a grunt and went back to work. He would go see Chase later. It's what colleagues do. It had nothing to do with any event that wouldn't be mentioned or any feelings that might have been uncovered during said un-mentionable event.

H 

Four days later Chase was being released from the hospital and House was in the middle of his suspension. Wilson had volunteered to take Chase home. Though he was recovering from his poisoning he wasn't a hundred percent yet. He'd argued with Martin to be discharged from the hospital and eventually, Martin caved and Chase was released.

He wasn't in good enough condition to drive, walking was still a challenge, so he'd accepted Wilson's offer of a ride without a thought. René was still banned from the hospital, which Chase found hilarious. Less amusing were the lengths House –his boss House, his miserable, misanthropic, boss that hated him House –had gone in order to diagnose and save him. It was a relief to Chase that House wasn't around right now. No doubt he would be rubbing this in and making Chase's life at work hell for the foreseeable future. Or he wouldn't, which might say more about this whole incident and their association than the first possibility. Chase wasn't sure which option was better or which one he wanted.

When they arrived after the quiet car ride Wilson insisted on seeing him to the door of his apartment and Chase was too drained to argue. Once he'd unlocked the door Wilson followed him in. He'd been there once before so the setting wasn't new to him.

"I've got everything I need. I'll be okay," Rob informed.

James nodded silently but his eyes roved over the apartment. "You shouldn't be alone here. In case something happens."

"Nothing is going to happen. And Zid is coming by after he's done at work."

"Right. Zid."

Here is where Chase usually would have asked if something was wrong. Fatigue and a slight amount of general malaise kept his mouth shut. All he wanted to do was go shower and then lie down.

"Alright then," Wilson said after a quiet sigh. "I'll see you at the hospital. Call me if you need anything."

"I will," Chase lied. He closed and locked the door behind Dr. Wilson. Leaning his back against the solid wood door he revelled briefly in the comfort of being home. He'd moved to this small apartment a few months after starting at PPTH. The on-campus housing had been fine but more expensive. In an effort to save money he'd moved off-campus to this flat. It was his home now. His brows drew together in sleepy consternation. It sounded less pathetic when he said it in his head. With the home in which he'd grown up in Australia sold long ago he had nothing left there. This small bachelor apartment was it.

He walked carefully to the bathroom, stripping the loose fitting sweats he'd been given at the hospital. The articles of clothing made a trial to the washroom, his boxers being shed just in front of the shower. He promised himself he'd pick up the mess later. Right now all he wanted was a shower and then a long nap.

His hair was still wet when he flopped into his bed. He'd put on a new pair of boxer and forgone anything else. A few hours must have passed when he felt a warm hand rubbing soothing circles in his back.

"Hey, Rob," a voice greeted softly. "How are you feeling?"

Only partly awake the recent hospital patient mumbled a response of "okay." Soft lips pressed briefly against his shoulder and he was asleep again.

H 

Early the next day there was a knock on the door. When he looked through the peephole to see who it was all he saw was a gold detective's shield. He'd been expecting the police to come talk to him but he hadn't expected them to be from New York.

"Robert Chase?" a petit blonde woman asked once the door was open. Chase nodded. She smiled at him. "I'm Detective Eames. This is my partner Detective Goren. We'd like to talk to you about what happened."

Goren shifted his files awkwardly around in his arms freeing one briefly to give a wave and a flustered smile conveying that the male detective, despite his imposing stature, was harmless.

Chase eyed them for a moment until, without a word, he stepped out of the doorway to allow them entry. The tall dark haired man, Goren, nodded to him with a smile that, upon closer inspection, seemed little more than a mask.

"You're from New York," he half asked, half stated.

"And you're from Australia," countered Goren, still with that smile. There was something strange about his demeanour, an awkwardness in his movement that was hard to place. Chase's mind was already working through the disorders that could cause such symptoms. It was a pointless exercise especially since the man appeared otherwise healthy and he wasn't his patient. Chase chalked it up to the man being weird and offered them seats on his couch while he took the arm-chair. He felt their eyes on him as he stiffly bent to drop into the piece of furniture.

"Muscle stiffness, from the poisoning?" Goren asked still standing.

Chase nodded but didn't look at him. The detective sounded like he already knew the answer. "It should go away eventually."

"Along with the tremors," Goren added. He'd read up on gyromitrin and it's effects and he knew that though the poison was being counteracted mostly by vitamin B6, the trauma to his central nervous system would take some time to fade.

"We just have a few questions for you," Eames said pleasantly from her place on the dark couch. Her partner wandered around the room gazing at the furnishings. Chase ignored the strange man and focused on the woman. She was pleasant, a surprise considering that she was a detective and probably dealt with a lot of unsavoury people in her line of work. She pulled out a small pad of paper and a pen and began. The questions were fairly routine and as Chase had only received the tampered beverage from House he didn't have much to give them.

"Do you think it's possible that Dr. House was the one who poisoned you?" Eames asked as calmly as possible. So far he was the only person they could confirm to have direct contact with the beverage before Chase ingested it. It followed that he was the first suspect in the investigation.

Chase's brows furrowed. "I don't think so. He doesn't like me but he wouldn't poison me just to pretend to save me." Even he's not that bored, Chase added in thought.

"And if he wanted you dead there are probably less traceable ways of doing it," Goren added softly to himself. His partner gave him a look having overheard the comment. The tall, dark-haired man gave an awkward shrug and gestured for them to continue. He'd fill her in when the interview was over and he had more information.

"Do you have the clothing that you were wearing that day?"

"No. I was in scrubs. I left them with the hospital laundry." He knew they were hoping for a clean sample of the coffee, something to definitively prove the source of the poison. "May I ask why detectives from New York are investigating this?"

Detective Goren answered from the far side of the room where his travels had brought him. "Some big-shot in our burough was poisoned the same way. Unfortunately for him his doctors didn't figure out what it was until the autopsy. You're lucky."

There was a pause before Chase's simple response. "I know."

Whether it was his tone or his words or just the man himself something about the young doctor resonated in Detective Goren. The younger man looked away first, back to Detective Eames who was still aside from him. Goren stared at the doctor for a little longer before Eames announced that they were done.

"We'll be in touch. Take care." Goren breezed out the door. Eames said her own goodbye and followed her partner. Chase was quickly alone again. He could only shake his head at the strange duo and close the door behind them.

"They missed their target," Bobby Goren said to his partner while they waited for the elevator.

"Doctor House doesn't fit the victim profile either. They were going after doctors suspected of practicing euthanasia on non-terminal patients."

Bobby nodded. "To teach them about taking life before their time had come –against God's plan. But there was no letter this time." He began to look through the files previously tucked under his arm. "Different M.O., same motive?"

"Maybe he has been killing patients. He's definitely got an ego big enough to find a justification in there somewhere." Alex frowned at the memory of their interview with Dr. House who was at home on suspension. They'd gone to see him. The miserable man that the hospital staff had described was the exact one that rudely greeted them. He'd been unimpressed and unhappy when they explained they were from New York and that they needed to re-interview him about the incident. Half an hour and many aggravated sighs later they'd left.

"I don't think he's the type, doesn't fit either end of our profile. He's not…he doesn't have enough empathy, and at the other end he doesn't need the power trip. He's a well-known and respected physician and he got there his way. He's got nothing to prove."

"And nothing to lose," added Eames. Greg House was single, childless and from what they could tell his only real friend was an oncologist where he worked.

Goren stared at the opening doors of the elevator then turned in an almost jerky motion back to Eames. "Maybe they didn't miss completely. If they wanted to hurt Doctor House…"

Alex picked up on his train of thought but didn't agree. "He made it pretty clear that he doesn't like Doctor Chase."

"Maybe too clear." Goren stepped onto the elevator car and held the door open while Eames entered. He'd had a difficult time trying to get a read on House. The man had so many thorns. "Maybe Robert Chase isn't the one he doesn't like. If someone wanted to teach him a lesson, doing it through a proxy would, maybe, be more effective."

The elevator doors slid closed. The lift began its descent.

Eames thought about it for a second and eventually gave a slight nod of agreement. "Somebody else has already tried the direct method and I can't imagine him being any worse than he is now." They'd heard about the shooting not long ago.

"Nothing that they do will change him. He's unhappy, alone, and everyone knows he's not a good person. He knows it too but knowing that other people agree won't make you hate yourself any less." Goren chewed on the nail of his right thumb as he contemplated the talented physician. Greg House was uncannily observant and arguably too smart for his own good. He was also wretchedly despondent.

The lift slowed as it reached the ground floor briefly making the two occupants feel heavier than normal. "He's right more often than not when judging people, even himself." He tilted his head to the side. "Maybe this time he wants to be wrong."

H 

House was restless that night. Jimmy was busy, too busy to put up with any needling so Greg was on his own. He didn't want to be though. As if he wasn't feeling bad enough about what had happened to Chase two more detectives had invaded his place and again interrogated him about the incident. And that weird guy, when House had finally had enough of his pacing around the room and staring at inconsequential objects he'd asked him bluntly if there was a history of mental illness in the family. Even the blonde lady detective had been unable to keep up her already severely strained mask of good humour. He'd unintentionally hit a sore nerve.

It had gotten them out of his apartment though. Not five minutes later they were through the door and he was gratefully relieved of them.

Now, however, he was tired of his own company and Steve, his rat and trusty sidekick was entertaining himself on his running wheel. All he had for entertainment were his thoughts, his guilty thoughts. That's what he blamed on his walk to his convertible, his subsequent drive that ended at Chase's apartment, and the long looks he'd been casting up at the third floor apartment.

House parked and got out. He wasn't sure what he'd say to Chase. It was nearly eight o'clock. He had no excuse to be there. He'd avoided Chase the last day he'd been at work before his suspension and he hadn't even bothered to call to check on Chase's progress. Cameron left a short message on his answering machine once but due to the lack of response she probably assumed he didn't care. He did though, too much.

Greg slipped into the small complex behind one of the building's residents. The curious glances the woman waiting next to him cast in his direction went unacknowledged. The lift arrived and took the woman to her floor, the second, and then continued its climb to the third.

A thin borealis of soft yellowish light spilled out from below the door to 309 and onto the dark wood of the hallway. Greg stepped into it, obscuring the pattern. He stood still waiting for his spirit to be moved enough to knock on the door. It took a minute or two, an interval during which two people walked by and noticed the frozen man. Finally he tapped his knuckles on the door producing a sharp knock.

There was a quick response. "It's open." House cringed recognizing the voice of Zinedine René. He walked in despite. The main living and kitchen area was empty except for the flowers and get-well gifts strewn across the counter. He went to the sleeping area whose view from the door was obscured by the partition.

"It's dangerous to leave the door unlocked," House admonished before he was even in sight. His low, yet somehow grating voice was instantly recognized.

"What do you want?" René asked harshly.

House tilted his head. "Is that anyway to talk to the man who saved your boyfriend?" House looked down at René who was above the sheets and fully clothed. He had a book opened and resting on his chest so that he could read it from his prone position. Next to him Chase was tucked into the double bed fast asleep, his body not fully recovered yet. He was on his front with his arms crossed beneath the pillow where his head lay. His head was turned towards René, unruly gold hair concealing his face.

"How is he?" House asked without bite.

There was a long measure of silence as several responses were contemplated. "He's fine, mostly. Tired, hands are a little unsteady sometimes, can't concentrate really well –I'm hoping that'll all go away."

"It should," House responded not taking his eyes from the form that had nearly died in his place.

"If you have something to say to him, wake him up and say it."

House lifted his gaze to the man on the bed that was awake. "Can't think of a thing." He turned to leave, still sheltering his unresolved internal conflict. "Don't tell him I was here. Or do. I don't think he'll care one way or the other."

"But you wish he did!" The exclamation and the sudden motion on the bed had Chase stirring a little but he settled back into slumber without waking. House breathed again. René sat up fully to continue his tirade at a lower volume. "He was all yours before. All he had was his job. New to the country the person he knew best was you. The person he admired most was you –the epitome of everything his father hated in him. But you blew it."

"I blew it?" House asked in disbelief, not admitting what 'it' was.

"He trusted you and when it meant the most to him you let him down. He realized he was nothing to you, and let you go. He fought for the last thing that meant anything to him, his job. And when he won, you lost, more than you'll ever know." A gentle hand brushed across Chase's cheek, pushing back the blonde strands for a moment until the caress ended and the curtain fell across his face again. The trance broke and House spoke.

"You're delusional. You like him so much, he's all yours."

"Yes, he is."

"Just because you're hot for him, doesn't mean the rest of the world is."

"Maybe not. There is something about him though, something that makes you want to know him."

"Puzzles are entertaining," House admitted, without apology reducing Chase to nothing more than an amusing distraction.

René shook his head almost sadly and looked down at the peaceful sleeper. "It's…puzzling how he makes you feel like less of a bad person," he said softly in a twist of House's statement. "He looks at you and he just sees a person, no history to live down to or lofty expectation to live up to. For a moment everything true about you is there and he doesn't look away or cringe. He smiles and in that moment you think you don't have to hate yourself quite as much as you do."

Clearly he was speaking from experience. House didn't appreciate the implication that he shared the experience, whether he did or not.

"You don't know anything about me." House marched out as best he could. The temptation to slam the door closed was strong. It would wake up Chase most likely and then René would be stuck trying to explain what had just happened. If René lied and said it was nothing there would be an invisible rift between the two that House could exploit at a later date. If René told Chase he was there then Chase might read something into it and House wasn't sure how he felt about that. Wilson told him that he always set himself up for lose-lose situations so this time he wouldn't.

The door closed with a soft click.

He wouldn't put himself in a position to manipulate or exploit the younger man because House feared that if the opportunity arose he wouldn't be able to resist. I can resist everything except temptation, a wise man once said. House walked away, quietly agreeing.

H 

"You know," Foreman said as he made a notation in the file "you don't have to supervise. I have done this before."

"As much fun as pointing out your incompetence would be, I'm not here for that." The spectator was trying to pay attention to his gameboy, keep an eye out for his nemesis and surreptitiously watch the examination that Foreman was performing. It was Friday. He'd just returned from his five-day suspension the day before (he decided to count the weekend in those days and Cuddy hadn't verbally said anything about it even if her glare said plenty). His second day back and he was already ditching his clinic duty that had been doubled. He'd off-loaded some of it to Cameron and Foreman the day before but today Cameron had her own clinic duty and for the moment Foreman was busy with a patient for a follow up.

"Any headaches?"

"Nope. I'm all better," Chase said. Martin had referred Chase to Foreman since he was a neurologist and it was clear the diagnostics team wanted to be well informed on the recovery. It was just easier for everyone this way.

"I'll be the judge of that." Foreman continued with the tests much to the patient's discontentment. At the conclusion of them Foreman looked over the results. "Well it doesn't appear that you haven't gotten any dumber." He missed the patient's glare. He couldn't miss hearing the snort from House.

"And people complain about my bedside manner."

"You have no bedside manner," Foreman threw over his shoulder before looking at the blonde man seated in casual clothing on the examination bed. "Looks like you'll make a full recovery. The tremors will vanish over time and you'll find your concentration getting better."

"And the mood-swings, they'll go too, right?"

Foreman nodded hurriedly. Chase sighed silently with relief. He'd noticed how jumpy he'd been recently and quickly attributed it to residual effects of the poison. He didn't like feeling out of control like he had been a few times in the past days. It wasn't anything drastic. Sometimes it just felt like the situation was slipping out of his grasp. The anxiety and on occasion anger would flare only to be followed later by an almost depressed state.

"You're going to be fine," Foreman gave Chase a pat on the shoulder. "You coming back to work soon?" The diagnostics department just didn't feel right when one of them was missing.

"Hopefully," Chase answered evasively. After his check up he was going to see Cuddy. He did feel mostly all right but he wanted to apprentice one of the other intensivists or emerg officers just to make sure he was still up to par.

"Well, I can evaluate you again later just-"

"Let you know if something weird happens. I know the drill."

Foreman shook his head. He wouldn't admit it (at least not until threat of torture) but he'd missed talking, arguing and trading jibes with Chase. He couldn't with Cameron. Her feelings bruised too easily.

"Aren't you done yet?"

"No comments from the peanut gallery," Foreman snapped mildly, gathering the chart together. "See you," he said to Chase as he left. To House, "I'll tell Cuddy where to find you."

House raised his eyes from his game unit just in time. Just try it, his look challenged. Chase was about to slip off the bed and to towards the exit as well when House addressed him.

"How did you get here?" he asked, eyes still on the flashing screen of his toy.

"Cab."

House turned his game off. "Where's your buddy boy?"

Chase shook his head slightly, wondering how many euphemisms House could find for boyfriend. "He's busy."

"Too busy to drive his sick lover-boy to the hospital? What kind of man is he?"

A better one than you, Chase replied angrily in his head. He closed his eyes pushing back the irritation. Usually House didn't get to him like this unless he was on a particularly sensitive topic, and while his relationship with René was one of them his reaction wasn't normal. He couldn't wait until he felt normal again.

"He's travelling soon. Wants to get a few things in order before he goes."

House turned to face him directly, gameboy forgotten and only the un-addressed issue of this whole ordeal filling the room. He dropped his gaze to the floor briefly while his right hand fiddled with his pant. It was an idle motion but House had a way of making even that seem significant.

"I'm okay," Chase tried. When the other man didn't react in anyway he opened his mouth to speak again. "You-"

"Why do you have a DNR?" House asked suddenly and raised his head to pierce the off-duty physician with his intense gaze.

Chase swallowed thickly not sure if he wanted to get into the reason for the advanced directive with this man. Silence extended between them for several seconds until Chase's shoulders slumped in acquiescence. He'd try to explain to House why in the hopes that it would help ease some unrest he saw in the chilly eyes.

"It's not that I want to die, it's just…" He looked up at the ceiling trying to find the right words. "It's about how I want to live." House didn't look mollified, just confused. Chase blew out his breath and tried to explain. "I don't have anyone. If something happened and I was unable to take care of myself…I'd have nobody and even if I did I wouldn't want to burden them."

"So life is only good enough for you when you're in perfect condition."

Chase felt his ire rising. "I just don't want to linger here for no reason."

House watched the anger mount in the vibrant eyes and for a split second compared them to the dullness that had been there a week before when the effect of the poison was running through his system unchecked. Chase turned his face away trying to regain his balance and House realized this was probably the moodiness Chase had been referring to when he was talking to Foreman. Right now it was a blessing in disguise for House. He could get more from his reclusive fellow now than under normal circumstances, as he just had.

House watched him, watched the nervous gestures that Chase couldn't quite hide and reflected. Chase was young, not even thirty yet and it seemed like he ready to give up. He didn't seem or sound very attached to his life. The DNR was practically proof of that. Chase sounded like he wasn't expecting things to ever get better. He was just coasting through what was left of his life and warily awaiting the next blow to strike. It was like living without hope.

Greg didn't understand how somebody living without hope, without faith, could so easily inspire it in others.

He sure as hell couldn't.

"Rescind the DNR order, Chase," he said with quiet authority. He watched as Chase's expression darkened in a way he'd never seen before. The Aussie turned to him and strode slowly over until he was close and looking down at his boss.

"No, House," he countered in a more sinister shade of House's tone. He made a quick exit a second later. House stared at the empty exam room for several minutes before escaping from his thoughts to the mind numbing drudgery of clinic duty.

"Didn't even say thanks," House muttered to himself as he entered the busy clinic.

H 

It was Open-Mic Nite at the Bomber on Fridays. Microphones were set up on the small stage area at wall opposite the bar. There was also a set of drums and a couple of stools. The track lights on ceiling were mostly directed to the performers, leaving the rest of the bar's patrons mostly in the dark except for a few lights at the booths and the candles at each table. The music was pretty good considering it was open-mic and the performers limited themselves to two songs leaving plenty of time for the numerous acts.

At a table near the front Chase sat with a group of friends. They were people he'd met just about five months ago but it was a pretty tight group and he'd managed to fit himself in their ranks. It was in this group that he'd met René.

"What's with the mysterious smile?" a girl at the table asked him.

"I can't smile mysteriously for no reason?" Rob asked leaning forward to rest on the table. Through the chair he felt a vibration when Zid shifted his arm that was resting on the back of it.

She rolled her eyes and jumped back into the conversation going on around them. Rob did too until their turn came. Zid nudged him excitedly as he got up. Chase followed with an indulgent smile. Zid had been trying to coax him for months play and he had only agreed when Zid said they'd make it a duet and do it the same night as the special surprise the group had organized for one of their friends. Recent events almost had him missing this day.

"You ready?"

Rob nodded.

Closer to the back of the bar and a little to the right Dr. House and Dr. Wilson watched the performance begin. Their beers sat on the wood table, being ignored for the moment by their respective drinkers. House had swung by Wilson's new place and practically dragged the man out of his apartment. He wouldn't take "no, I'm tired," for an answer. Wilson had grumbled all the way to the Bomber, a bar he'd never even heard of, though his protests did loose their heat when House announced that they were wombat hunting.

They'd entered the bar to find Chase already there with a group of his friends and his boyfriend sitting next to him.

"How'd you know he'd be here?" Wilson had asked after they'd ordered their beers and sat down at an empty table.

"I saw the date and place marked on a sticky note in his apartment," House had replied without remorse. Chase's apartment really had been a window into the other side of the young man's life and House was afraid to examine why it was so important that he know that part. Cameron's private life, well he was heavily featured in it. Foreman, he had a girlfriend, boring. Chase, until recently he knew nothing about his. It was a situation he felt compelled to remedy. Besides, it was only fair that he find out what he'd saved.

Wilson had pressed how dishonest this was, spying on a colleague but he didn't get up to leave and House just deflected his words with witty comebacks to pass the time. They both hushed when René and Chase went on the stage and played their piece.

Each cradled a guitar, strummed the strings and sang their chosen song, sometimes together, at others separate. The song was familiar and fairly old. "More Than Words" House recalled the title but not the original performers. The Chase-René version of it sounded just as good as far as House was concerned. Even though Chase's accent came through when he sang, it was softer and his voice blended well with his partner's.

Around them many patrons bounced and swayed gently to the sweet song. Next to House, Wilson was a statue. He hadn't taken his eye off Chase since he'd stepped on the stage and his hair luminesced under the bright lights. His head was tilted down a little as he sang and his eyes didn't stray from some spot in front of him except on occasion to glance up at an audience he couldn't see or to the man playing next to him. James didn't miss any of the understated glances. René was bolder staring for long seconds at his partner. It seemed René was singing only to Chase.

"All you have to do is close your eyes and just reach out your hand," the lyrics flowed melodiously from his lips to Chase. They sang on together in beautiful harmony and with quiet emotion unique to the two performers. The song sung here would have a few people downloading the song in the coming days only to find that the rendition of this night was one of a kind.

"More than words," Chase had sung back with a voice in harmony with more than the strings of his guitar.

The song ended and before the last noted died away applause drowned it out. Robert smiled and dipped his head in acknowledgement of the applause. Zinedine stood up and bowed with all the flourish and egotism of a true performer.

"Thank you," Robert said into the applause, filling the bar with his accent. "That was More Than Words by Extreme. Now we'd like to play another song but we'll need the rest of the band." He couldn't hold back his smile as the rest of the table he'd been at cleared except for one Chinese woman. The rest of the group was on the stage.

"We'd like to dedicate this to our dear friend. I'm sure you'll figure out her name in a moment," Robert said. "Oh, and feel free to sing along."

The song started with a rhythm of stomps and claps that many people recognised but were unable to place until the group began to singing and the guitars joined in. The embarrassed woman smiled behind the hands that were hiding her face as the whole bar joined in the song.

"Cecelia! You're breaking my heart! You're shaking my confidence daily!"

At the back of the bar Greg and James sang along, unable to resist the free cheer flowing through the room. Also, getting the chance to embarrass a complete stranger couldn't be passed up. Celia, a grad student, was from Hong Kong, and had picked an American name at random when she arrived knowing that it would be easier than Xiaoming. She was beginning to think she should have gone with anything else.

"Jubilation! She loves again! I fall on the floor and I'm laughing!"

H 

When Chase came back to work Wednesday of the next week House was playing Cecilia by Simon and Garfunkel from his Ipod. Chase wasn't sure if it was a coincidence. From the half smile pulling at House's mouth, Chase guessed it wasn't. He just shook his head and got on with his morning, greeting Foreman and Cameron. There was nothing he could do about House being House. He told the man to screw off and that didn't work. Being passive probably wasn't going to help. He shook his head as he made his coffee the way he liked it. The man was incorrigible completely, entirely and categorically.

"Alright kiddies now that the third stooge is back it's time to get to work," House said as he walked in.

Chase chewed on his stirrer shaking his head at the man but knowing that House couldn't be changed. He hoped he wasn't the only one who thought that maybe that was okay.

H 

**End Chapter 5**

Sorry for the cheesy bit at the end. I just couldn't help myself. I blame it on the bunnies! You should too.

I also wanted to say hi to Cecelia, my old roommate! Hi Cecil!!!

Next chapter out Sunday or Monday…hopefully Sunday.

Sagga…


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Treats, my pets!" House handed Foreman a mini-Mars bar. He went over to Cameron and gave her a Hershey's chocolate kiss hoping she wouldn't read too much into it and then he went back to the table where Chase was doing a crossword.

"Nothing for Chase?" Foreman asked as he opened his candy, after checking that it hadn't been tampered with.

Chase glanced up but when House just stared at him with a strange smile he went back to his newspaper.

"Here you go," House finally said, holding out a lollipop. "I figured I'd give the pencil you're chewing a break."

"Your compassion for inanimate objects is…disturbing," Chase said after he removed the pencil from his mouth.

"You saying you don't want this delicious cherry sucker?" House waved the candy side to side.

"No, I'm not saying that." Chase leaned forward to grab it. "Thank you." He quickly shucked the wrapper and began to work on the spherical treat.

House grinned and watched for a second as Chase held the candy between his thumb and index finger so that he could rotate it with ease. Oblivious to being watched he went about wetting the candy with multiple licks, moving his head to lick all around the sucker before ending the unintentional show and sucking it into his mouth. House blinked a few times, his smiled having vanished, then turned to go back to his office. The content if somewhat devious expression returned when he saw Cameron quickly look away from Chase's unwitting display. House couldn't force the return of a straight face no matter how hard he tried.

He was going to get Wilson good with this.

H 

"Dr. Chase." Wilson called to the man whose back was to the door. "You called me," Chase turned around, Wilson's statement trailed off as his eyes kept glancing down to the other man's lips.

"I didn't call anybody. I don't even have a patient."

Wilson had already forgotten what he'd said. "Oh. I…uh…must have read the….um…page…wrong." He retreated quickly, leaving a mildly confused Chase alone in the examine room where he was putting away some instruments.

"Would you like to share those naughty thoughts you just had?" House asked, suddenly coming around a corner.

"You paged me!" Wilson accused.

"Guilty as charged."

Wilson was speechless. His outrage and embarrassment had him gaping like a fish.

"Why would you do that?"

"You've known me for how long? Why wouldn't I do that?"

"Yes, I guess that would be a better question," Wilson responded irritably. He had known House for a while and this was no worse than the other stunts the man had pulled, most of them aimed directly at his sexuality or his numerous affairs (both pre- and extramarital). Now, though, House was doing it through Chase and with a malevolence that outweighed the jest.

"Now are you going to tell me what's going on?" He hoped that didn't sound as much like a jaded ex as he thought it sounded.

Wilson stopped walking. He didn't even know where he was going. He just had to escape. "What do you think? You…you…what did you do?" he asked gesturing back the way they came. This most recent event involving Chase was much easier to address than the undercurrent between the two of them that they'd both consciously chosen not to address directly.

"Oh, you mean the lovely shade of red my underling is sporting? Never underestimate the power of food-dye red number four. Now are you going to tell me what's going on between the two of you?"

"Let me think about it?" Wilson said sarcastically and then stormed away trying to get the image of Chase out of his head; the bright hair, lovely eyes and sinfully red lips.

Damn House!

H 

Tragedy struck a little under two weeks later. Chase's temporary apprenticeship under Dr. Marlow was over and he was back full time with the diagnostics team. House had stopped giving him red suckers and Dr. Wilson had stopped stuttering. Life was getting back to normal and Zid was supposed to be back from his trip today.

Yes things were looking up. Chase should have known it wouldn't last.

They were all just hanging around in the diagnostics conference room when his cell phone rang. Chase went to his bag and answered it.

"Hello?"

From his office House could see Chase on the phone and he could see the change in his expression as he spoke to whoever was on the other side. This warranted closer eavesdropping. Cameron and Foreman must have thought so too because they were both quietly listening to the one-sided conversation as well.

"What happened?" Chase asked into the phone. "Wait. What things?" He ran a hand through his hair in anxiety. "No, wait! I don't understand. What happened? Just tell me!" Chase glanced up from the floor and became aware of the eyes on him and left still trying to coax answer from the conversation's other participant. Cameron and Foreman looked at each other with varying degrees of worry, confusion and curiosity. House's curiosity exceeded theirs and he followed Chase out the door. The intensivist ducked into a stairwell unaware that he was being tailed.

"Zid, please talk to me…" Chase begged stepping down a few stairs to the next platform.

House slipped silently into the stairwell –the ketamine treatment having made him better at sneaking around –and stepped to the far end of the landing where Chase wouldn't be able to see him if he turned around.

"Zinedine…Zid, listen to me. It doesn't matter." Chase bowed his head listening carefully to the reply. He brought a hand up to rub over his face. "Zid, please, just tell me where you are. I'll come right over."

House couldn't miss the desperation and tension in Chase's voice so it was a surprise when it all seemed to drain away for a few brief seconds.

"I know, Zid," Chase murmured. "I…I love you too."

House wondered what it cost him to admit that. He wondered if it was a lie, or an exaggeration. The way his free hand idly flicked the edge of this lab-coat, and the soft somewhat distant expression relaxing the younger man's face all pointed towards sincerity and House looked away for a moment.

The tension came back a second later swamping the serene emotion that had been there before. Something had been said and only Chase had heard it.

"Zid? What do you mean?"

House wanted to intervene here because he could see the growing panic in Chase's movements and his posture. This was rapidly heading south and it wasn't nearly as entertaining as a train wreck. He pushed away from the wall.

"Zinedine?…Sorry for what?…..Zid? Zid, talk to me please!…Zinedine!"

Chase pulled the phone away from his ear to check that he was still connected. As he brought it back a sharp sound was heard, a pop, which even from the small speaker of the cell phone's earpiece could be heard by House.

The sound froze Chase. Many seconds passed by and the tremors he'd suffered from after the poisoning returned due to his state of anxiety. He slowly moved the phone closer to him, staring down at the device as though it had all the answers. When he tried to speak, nothing came out. His throat felt tight and his mouth was suddenly dry. In contrast, cool sweat pricked his forehead and his palms were clammy.

"…Zid?" He managed little more than a squeak. He swallowed with difficulty and tried again. "Zinedine? Please answer." His voice was scratchy as though he'd been screaming at the top of his lungs. "…Zid…pick up…"

"Chase."

The blonde whipped around, startled by the call. He'd thought he was alone.

"Chase, give me the phone." Greg held out his hand for it but Chase stepped back and held it closer to his chest. His eyes held such confusion it was almost painful for House to see. "Chase-"

"No," he whispered. It may as well been a yell as it halted House in his approach and his words. Chase looked down at the phone, still connected. Zid was on the other side. He just had to find him. "I have to go," he said hurriedly and took off past House back to the diagnostics department.

Cameron and Foreman where surprised to see him back so soon and looking so jumpy. Chase quickly grabbed his bag and ran out before the other two doctors could say anything.

"Chase!" House's yell could be heard through many corridors and though Chase was not far away all he heard were Zinedine's last words.

"You should hate me but please don't."

H 

Both House and Wilson put a great deal of effort into trying to contact Chase that evening. Alas, it was all to no avail. Wilson went home late that night, and though House stayed up later than usual trying to reach his youngest fellow, his messages got no response. Not even his fake page about a hospital emergency had worked. He went to bed vowing that if Chase didn't show up for work the next day he'd go to the other man's apartment and track him down.

As it was, House woke late and arrived in a similar fashion to the hospital. He marched as quickly as he could through the front foyer, past the clinic and Cuddy who was looking particularly unhappy that morning. The elevator took so long in arriving that he'd considered taking the stairs, and though they were no longer the nemesis they once were, he still truly hated stairs. He rounded the corner leading to his office and the playpen for his fellows and halted a few feet from the destination to which he'd been rushing.

They were all there –Foreman with his newspaper, Cameron at the computer and Chase at the table with a mug of coffee. House approached the outwardly normal situation with caution. As he got close enough to accurately read their expression and gauge their moods he noticed the less than subtle glances thrown often in the direction of the still and silent Chase.

House dropped his bag in his office before walking into the strangely charged conference room. None of them looked over to him right away. Cameron eventually cast him a worried look then looked back to Chase. Foreman glanced at him then hid behind his newspaper as if expecting House to do or say something that would set things off –the proverbial House-brand match in the powder keg.

"Foreman, clinic duty. Go. Cameron, you too," House ordered with the quiet force equal to the great dictators. Slowly the two complied, assuming that one of them was supposed to sign in under his name. Chase began to get up too but House stopped him with his words. "Chase, what happened?"

"Why do you care?"

House shrugged in feigned nonchalance and sat down across from him. "I don't but tell me anyway." Chase didn't say anything. "Or I can try to guess." Chase's eyes narrowed as some dangerous emotion built up behind his eyes. "He-"

"He's dead," came the low statement. "Bought a gun…and one shot to the heart."

House dropped his head forward a little. "Sorry," he said looking at the floor and glancing up after a second.

"Yeah, me too." The accent was thicker and the words deeper. He swallowed back something and spoke again in a voice he tried valiantly to make sound normal. "I'm not going to kill someone." The reference to Kayla, the woman he'd misdiagnosed after his father's death was harsh. Even House hadn't been sure whether he'd bring that up.

"Well, now that that's out of the way," he said lightly, "on to the hard stuff." His voice dropped in timber as he told Chase, "This wasn't-"

"Wasn't my fault?" Chase interrupted again. The flash of annoyance on House's face didn't faze the Australian. "Of course not. Why would I expect him to come and at least talk to me face to face before he blew himself away? Why wonder whether I could have saved him if he had?" His voice was too cool and his affect muted. A bitter laugh was the most emotion House saw from him. "Why…" he looked away and bit his lip for a second. "Why waste my time?"

House had never been good at comforting. So why did he put himself in this situation? Maybe he was a little worried. Chase needed to vent and as well as House could give abuse, he could take it too.

"Chase, go home."

Chase did that laugh again, the dead and bitter one that House was really beginning to hate. "Home to what?" he asked miserably.

House wanted to slap him, shake him hard and just yell at him not to fall to this. He recognized too much Chase's tone and knew vaguely the sense of loss that must have been suffocating him. He didn't want Chase to just let go. He was already hanging on by just a thread, probably had been since his mother died. House didn't want this to be the final blow. He didn't want Chase to end up like him, a shadow of a person, wandering the land of those who truly and wholly lived and watching it all pass him by, unwilling to try again.

Ignorant of House's tormented thoughts Chase got up and retrieved his bag.

"Don't go to any bars," House warned softly as he watched Chase leave.

"I know whose son I am," Chase said without turning around. He was well aware of the possible predisposition towards alcoholism he may have, the possibility he'd gotten more than his looks from his mother.

Chase paused at the glass door then left without saying anything more and House let him.

"How is he?" Wilson asked as he walked in once Chase was out of sight.

Greg leaned back in his chair and tapped the table. "Depressed and distracted." Same way he was when Rowan Chase died. He gave the table a few more taps before walking out of the room. "Gotta go check on the serfs."

"Of course, sire." Wilson walked back to his office.

He and House had come to the correct conclusion yesterday when they were looking for Chase. House's candid description of the pop he'd heard from the phone and the conversation preceding it had them both thinking self-inflicted gunshot. Even after confirmation House didn't seem outwardly concerned, probably because he was counting on Wilson's concern to take care of the problem. And while he didn't want to be predictable James couldn't change who he was.

H 

"It's open," came a soft accented voice after the two knocks on the wood. Dr. Wilson slowly opened the door and poked his head in. The greeting in his throat died on his lips as he saw Chase. James stared sadly for a moment, wondering if he should leave. He closed the door, the hush returned.

Basking in the midst of the silence and stillness Chase sat half on the windowsill, one leg raised with his bare foot on the ledge. A striped button-up shirt hung loosely from his shoulders, the sleeves reaching his knuckles and the bottom reaching past his mid thigh. The thin shirt wasn't done up leaving parts of him exposed to the chill drifting through the apartment. Eyes fixed to the dark outside, thousands of faint lights dotted the dark canvas of the clear night. His thoughts had taken him just as far away as some of those stars and the vast empty cold between them. He let himself drift, riding the currents of desolation, hoping they would soon take him somewhere that he could be free from it.

"Robert," his name from the ghost in the darkness. He turned to real person, away from the reflection in the glass. "I'm sorry."

Rob nodded. "You don't have to be here," he said quietly, barely disturbing the peace. The old and worn hardwood floor drew his attention for a moment then he looked back outside.

"You need somebody here."

The eyes in the reflection caught him. The hand on the base of his neck wasn't a surprise –he'd seen Wilson move to touch him in the glass. Gentle insistence in the touch had him moving from his perch to the couch. He faced forward and drew his knees to his chest. The shirt draped around him.

James sat next to him, close to him. He wasn't sure what to say. All the training and lessons about death that he'd received in med-school and all his experiences with comforting distraught relatives seemed to have fled, leaving him unarmed.

"His shirt?" James asked eyeing the item that was clearly too big for the man next to him. He looked like a little boy who'd raided his father's closet, a very sad little boy.

Rob nodded to the oncologist's question. "I guess it's a little too big." He raised one arm judging the excessive length before wrapping it around his knees again. "He left it here a while ago. I just…put it on."

"It's a nice colour," James said.

"Yeah, he has a better sense fashion than me…had a better sense of fashion." Rob rested his forehead on his knees, letting his hair fall forward as a shield from sight.

Wilson wouldn't let him hide. He brushed a hand through the soft strands, tenderly pulling back the curtain of light hair. "You'll be okay," he assured. On a whim he pulled Chase towards him, the younger man unfolding from his position before wrapping his arms around the other doctor and resting his head on his chest. With his ear pressed against Wilson's chest he could hear the dull rhythm of a heartbeat.

He felt the shuddered breath leave Wilson and clutched on a little tighter. He knew how Wilson felt about him. He'd made that pretty clear a few months ago but at the time he'd been with René and the incident had left him a little shaken due to his guest's state of inebriation. Since then they'd been nothing but friends.

Right now, he didn't want to think. Not about how this may make things more complicated and not about how wrong it was to be this close to someone who was in lust with him. It was just that letting go, being alone, was too hard. Only tonight, Rob thought to himself. Then he could be alone, he was used to it after all. Or he'd become used to it again.

"It's okay to cry," James murmured in to the soft hair just beneath his chin.

Rob nodded weakly . "I know."

Zinedine deserved his tears. So had his mother and so had his father but they hadn't come then either. He was sure there was something wrong with that. When you lose someone you love, you're supposed to cry. He couldn't explain why his tears never came.

His eyes were shiny with wetness that wouldn't flow over his lower lashes. There just wasn't enough to let them fall. He wasn't trying to hold them back. They just didn't want to come and he wasn't quite histrionic enough to force them.

"I'd like to cry for him," Rob said softly, too softly for James to make out. "I don't know why I can't."

Wilson leaned in to the corner of the couch where the back and armrest met. He held Chase close to him with an arm over his shoulders. The hand grasping James' shirt loosened when Wilson's free hand settled over it. He trailed his other hand up and down Chase's side and back relaxing the tension from the muscles. Every so often he let his hand drift further up to card through light-coloured hair, moving it futilely away from the face he couldn't see from his angle only to have it fall back down again when the locks slipped from his fingers. James continued his massage even after Rob fell asleep. Maybe he'd convinced himself that he could keep the demons away from the upset man's dreams or maybe it was that he couldn't give the touch up yet.

Zinedine's shirt, the one Chase wore, was thin. It didn't even mask the warmth of Chase's skin underneath or the slight shifting and bunching of muscles when he moved. Wilson traced the back of his fingers up and down the valley at the small of his sleeping friend's back, barely able to keep his touch from slipping under the edge of the Chase's dark pants which sitting loosely around his hips. He forgave himself for the brief occasions of weakness when his fingers brushed against the back of Chase's pants or over the rise of supple flesh concealed underneath.

Staring up at the ceiling he asked any divine entity in the neighbourhood for guidance, for answers, for strength. He'd been unable to ask Chase for the details of Zinedine's death. Chase didn't seem ready for that sort of discussion yet and Wilson wasn't ready to hear it yet. So he sat there giving as much generic comfort as he could.

Chase woke early the next morning from a fitful slumber. The living pillow he'd been resting against the night before was gone. He surmised that Wilson left some time during the night. He had his own home to go back to after all.

From the window bright, early morning sunlight entered his apartment, painting the opposite wall in bright and shadows from the objects interrupting the beams. Rob stared for a moment at the brightness and shook his head as he turned away, his hands bunching into tight fists.

It was always felt strange, the new morning. No matter the catastrophe no matter the loss, the world went on as though nothing had changed. Indeed for most nothing had. For him and a few others though, a dear friend had been lost and they were the only ones who would mourn. Other people got up went to work. Kids went to school. The earth turned. It was infuriating at first and at late, comforting. Day by day, he would find a way to pick up and survive, each sunrise pushing him back to normal even if he went along with a once again empty heart.

"You didn't have to come in," House said as Chase walked into his office.

Chase didn't respond to the comment. "I need Friday morning off. Funeral."

House nodded, unwilling for the moment to play around with this issue. Maybe later. "Well I guess the other two will have to do without us that day."

"Where are you going to be?"

"District Attorney's office. They want my opinion on what I think a suitable punishment for Moriarty is." House spun his chair ninety degrees while he looked up at the ceiling in thought. "Red-hot poker to the groin should cover it. Don't you think?"

Chase winced mildly at the thought, unable to conjure the repulsion such a suggestion deserved. "You don't want to know what I think," he said as he went to the conference table. He pulled out his newspaper from his bag and began on the crossword.

A few minutes later Foreman and then Cameron arrived to the normal scene of Chase masticating a writing tool and House just being a tool playing his video game. The tension that had been flowing off Chase in waves yesterday was gone. He still seemed a little prickly, as though the picture of normalcy he was portraying didn't jive entirely with his internal state. They too had assumed it had something to do with René though they wisely refrained from asking. Chase had never been one for sharing his personal life with others. Tragedy wasn't going to make him start now.

Friday rolled around with Chase going to Zinedine's funeral and House to his meeting with some assistant DA's. Chase returned first, changing out of his black suit at home and then going straight to PPTH. The funeral had been sad and depressing, like most funerals. When other friends and family were sharing stories of their lost friend and loved one with the other mourners, he had remained quiet. Many of the family members, cousins, aunts and uncles, didn't even know Zid had an interest in men. He figured they didn't need to know.

"Hey, Chase. You okay?" Cameron asked when he walked in. He gave her a weak smile and a nod. She had no choice but to accept both knowing better than to try and force any information from him.

"When's House going to be back?" Chase asked to deflect attention from his absence.

"No idea. Foreman went to consult on another case, which just leaves you and I."

Cameron was on her laptop at the small desk in the corner of the conference room. She was reviewing medical journals for interesting cases. Chase had a different method for passing the time. He went to the computer at House's desk and began playing Sudoku –nothing like cold, unfeeling numbers to ease a mind in turmoil. After he completed the first game rather quickly he spared a thought to wonder how exactly House's meeting was going.

H 

"How do I put this lightly? You're not exactly the most heart-wrenching victim." The woman in her suit crossed her arms and looked down at the last victim seeking justice.

"So what? I need to be a _Care Bear_ before you can get a conviction?"

David Spencer removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. The officers on the shooting case had warned him about Dr. Greg House but he'd just thought they were being overly sensitive. Nobody could possibly be that abrasive, that rude.

"Maybe you should find another line of work. I saw this lovely establishment on my way here. It's called Hooters. Perhaps you've heard of it?"

Spencer watched the other Assistant District Attorney, Marla Rogers. Her eyes got unimaginably wide, the colour in on here cheeks rose, drowning out the delicate rouge that she'd painted on at the beginning of her day.

"Y'know what? You deserved to get shot!"

House looked to the exasperated ADA Spencer. "This is reason free from emotion? Aristotle must be spinning in his grave."

Spencer sighed. "Dr. House, what my partner means is that we have to refute the defence's argument."

"So you can shoot people as long as you hire the debate champion?"

"Lieder is no debate champion," Rogers scoffed, clearly she didn't have a very high opinion of this man either. "But if this goes to trial they're going to go for an affirmative defence. And considering the victim," her dark eyes slid towards House, "they might have a chance."

"We're looking to offer a deal." Spencer watched carefully for a reaction from Dr. House. "Aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, he serves at least five years."

"How long is the max?"

"Ten years. Is that alright with you?"

"It'll have to be won't it? Considering the victim," he said, looking at Rogers. He got up and left a moment later.

"Make the offer to Leider. And try not to offend him in the same sentence."

Rogers shrugged and walked away. "No promises."

H 

Trenton State Prison was a maximum-security facility to house the worst criminal offenders. Rapist and murders called this place home for the duration of their sentences. For some that would be for the rest of their lives. It was where Jack Moriarty found himself between trips to the courthouse. The judge at his arraignment had quickly remanded him to the prison when the prosecution brought up his initial escape attempt at the hospital after he'd shot that bastard.

He wasn't sure if it was worth it now, but he couldn't take it back. Didn't really want to take it back, he just didn't want to be here.

"Hey, fuck off!"

Moriarty shook his head, hardly believing his life had come to this. Up and down the tier of his cell block and from the tiers above and below, he heard the crass conversations of the worst of society. He'd learnt to stay below the radar, joining the ranks of the unaligned inmates, mostly old men who wanted nothing but to serve their time in peace.

"You don't look like a killer," a deep voice said from the open doorway of the cell. Moriarty stared disinterestedly at the intruder. All the cells were open, leaving the inmates to mix and mingle. Moriarty preferred it when the doors were locked shut –all the animals in their cages.

"What do you want?" he asked, trying not to sound anything but neutral. Though he hadn't been here long he'd learnt who the leaders of the various packs were. The man currently darkening his doorway was one of them. Rumoured to have connection with the Massucci's, Antony Yarrow was a dangerous man. He'd been convicted of several counts of money laundering and some other pretty white collar stuff but that was only because the DA hadn't been able to make the string of murders stick to him. Even with the convictions it was only a set back for Yarrow and his business partners. The majority of his works were still well hidden from law enforcement. What the DA had on him barely scratched the surface.

"I have a proposition for you."

There was a long stretch where neither spoke. The sounds of the rest of the prison filled the silence that would have been. "What kind?" Moriarty asked, thinking that maybe he wouldn't have to spend the next five years of his life in this toilet. He was still considering the offer his lawyer had passed on to him. A man like Yarrow however probably had the pull to get his sentence shortened drastically.

"I can make your legal troubles go away," Yarrow began, his light brown eyes wide as he tried to put the wary man in front of him at ease. "All I need you to do is share some information about the man your cronies poisoned."

"You're mistaken. I haven't poisoned anybody." His denial was nonchalant even though his heart raced.

"Come now. I know about your attempt to kill that doctor; House. I know you screwed it up. Even at point blank range. I also know that a man like you doesn't give up. Your revenge is all you have." Yarrow let himself in and sat down on the lower bunk next to Moriarty. Moriarty was too busy trying to keep his apprehension from showing to worry about the physical presence of the powerful man next to him or his goons guarding the exit. "They botched it though. Got that boy instead. The way I see it it's a win-win situation if you give me what I want. You'll get access to my considerable resources and you'll get to torment the source of your misery."

Moriarty couldn't deny it sounded like a good deal. He'd been informed about how House had reacted when the poison meant for him ended up taking down one of his underlings. Though their access to the hospital was limited they'd found a way and passed the details on to him. The only way House's torment could have been worse was if the young man had died.

It seemed Yarrow was also somewhat informed about his business and Moriarty could not say for certain if that was a good or bad thing. What the mobster planned to do if he handed over the information gave him pause but he still considered the offer.

"You think about it," Yarrow said and stood to leave. "You could be very comfortable for the short time that you're stuck here."

Moriarty responded before he got to the door. "I don't need to think about it." Yarrow looked over his shoulder. "You've got a deal."

Yarrow nodded and left.

Moriarty sat back against the cool concrete wall dividing the cells and considered that he shouldn't be dragging another person into this mess between him and House. Hadn't enough people been destroyed because of that man? Tears welled in his eyes as he thought of what had been lost to him. His guilt over the decision he'd just made was drowned by the grief and anger. Dr. Chase and the others weren't his targets, didn't even know their names until recently except for Dr. Cameron. If he'd wanted to hurt them then he would have shot them when he shot House two months ago. However, if this was the only way he could hurt the craggy asshole and make him feel as badly as he did, then Jack would take it.

H 

Two weeks later, the second week of August and the moderately warm days were warning that summer would soon be coming to an end. The sweltering days of July and late June were now just memories of sweat and the joys of air conditioning. For those in PPTH it meant that vacation season was over and that the intermittent vanishing of hospital to play their summer sports or take family trips would be ending, bringing the hospital back to it usual state of fully yet somehow still understaffed.

"Doctor Robert Chase?"

Chase turned. "That's me." Two men approached and flashed their gold NJ detective badges at him. Chase put the patient file he'd been looking at back on the stack that took up a corner of the Nurse's station in the clinic. "Is this about Zinedine?" He'd been interviewed briefly by a couple of detectives about the events of René's suicide. Apparently it was just a routine investigation but the appearance of two of New Jersey's finest had Chase wondering if perhaps something else had been discovered. A reason would be nice because though he searched for weeks he could find nothing that gave this tragedy any sense. As close as Rob thought they were, looking into his boyfriend's life after his death proved to him that there was a great deal about Zid that he hadn't known and even more that he still did not.

The younger of the two officers, dark hair and pale skin, glanced at the older more experienced one before answering. "It might be connected –to him and to what happened to you before."

The mention of his poisoning threw him for a bit of a loop. He'd given up on ever finding out who was behind that after the lack of progress reported to him. Chase ushered them to an empty exam room so that they could talk more privately. They introduced themselves as Detectives Hank Morrison, the younger man, and Drew Freedman, the older, quiet one.

"Do you know, or know of Tina and Andrew Islington?"

Chase shook his head after a moment of thought. "If I saw them as patients it's more than likely I just don't remember." So many people came in and out of the clinic and the ICU that after a day or two they were wiped from his mind and replaced with more recent patients. Only particularly memorable cases stuck out.

"Have you received any threats or ominous messages in the past ten weeks?"

"No…what is this about?"

"Where were you the night of Thursday, May eighteenth?" Freedman asked suddenly, ignoring Chase's question.

"That was months ago." He glanced at the two. They waited for a response so Chase huffed and tried to recall. He went to the small calendar pinned to the wall and flipped back a few months. May 18 was a Thursday. "I'm not sure. Probably here or at home."

"Can anybody vouch for that?" Freedman again.

"Vouch for where I was when I'm not entirely sure myself?" Chase looked sceptically at them. "If I was at the hospital then I signed in. If I was at home then I was probably alone." He'd started dating René in early April but as busy as they both were they hadn't hung out during weekdays that much at the time. It wasn't until later that they gave the other a key to their respective dwellings to maximise the time they spent together. "Am I a suspect in some crime?" He crossed his arms. His initial welcome of these two had, with their questions evolved into wary mistrust. Chase knew he hadn't done anything and his mistrust further evolved into disbelief at the older detectives next words.

"I think we should continue this down at the station."

Shock lit the specialist's. "Am I under arrest?"

"Would you like to be?" Freedman pulled out a pair of shiny cuffs and twirled them around one finger.

They allowed the physician, their suspect, a brief visit to the diagnostics conference room to retrieve his belongings and hang up his lab coat. Foreman was the only person there. They interrupted his reading of a medical journal. Chase gave him a brief explanation, asking him to pass it on to House and Cuddy. Foreman had eyed the two detectives. Even from his seated position his expression looked down on them especially the older one. One part bully, one part hypocrite, he thought comparing them to the officers he ran into when he was a kid and the one he'd watched died of a brain eating parasite that he too had suffered from.

The younger detective seemed alright, a little green and still optimistic. The older one had lost all his optimism and probably his morals too, Foreman thought as he watched them leave. The look tossed back at him from Freedman didn't help settle the inkling of warning that had been building since he saw their badges. Once they were out of sight Foreman abandoned his journal and went in search of House.

H 

"So, Doctor Robert Chase," Freedman said reading from a paper. "You're kinda young to be a doctor."

Chase glanced at the man across from him then to the one-way window beyond and responded absently. "Yeah, I get that a lot." He felt uncomfortable, a little on edge, which he surmised was the reason they built interrogation rooms like this. He knew there were people on the other side of the tinted glass. Just because he couldn't see them, didn't mean he couldn't feel their eyes on him.

"You're an intensivist. What exactly does that mean?"

Chase wasn't sure what aspect of the interrogation this was for. He answered anyway. "It mean's I'm an ICU specialist. I treat mostly critically ill patients."

"That must be tough."

Chase didn't respond. He didn't feel he had to since it wasn't a question and he didn't like this man.

Freedman, also tired of the good cop act went to something that was more familiar. He pulled out several crime scene photos and spread them out across the table. The images were gruesome, spatters of blood on the floors and walls, a couple staring with lifeless eyes and large exit wounds bloodying their backs and floor on which they had lain.

Chase glanced at the images and then back to Freedman waiting for whatever was to come next.

"You don't seem to mind," the detective commented with narrowed eyes.

"I've seen similar in real life. I suppose I'm a little desensitized." He didn't look back at the images. They were disturbing but he wasn't about to puke or anything so dramatic. If he could watch a man's sternum being sawed in two and then the ribcage being forced open exposing all the protected internal organs, then he could handle the crime scene photos.

"You suppose? Or maybe you've just seen them before." He slid two smaller drivers licence photos to Chase's side of the table. "Tina and Andrew Islington. Good, decent people. Not a spot of bad credit. Worst thing in either of their records were parking violations." Freedman eyed Chase and waited.

Chase shifted uncomfortably in the silence. What did the detective want him to say? He didn't know these people and had nothing to do with this crime. He didn't have anything to say except, "I didn't do this. I don't own a gun and I've never seen these people before."

"I think you're a liar. I mean you're already a coward and a screw up."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Well the way I see it Doctor Cameron is the pretty and compassionate one, Doctor Foreman is the smart one, which just leaves the one that makes them look even better by comparison, professionally anyway. You know what I mean." Freedman smiled harshly at him. "According to my research you're the only one to have killed a patient. What was her name again? Kathrine?"

"Kayla! And I didn't kill her! I made a mistake…"

"An error in judgement that cost her life! Maybe you made another mistake and it cost Tina and Andrew their lives?"

"No! You can't equate what happened with Kayla to this," he gestured to the scattered pictures.

"What happened to her? You can't even say it? You killed her!"

"I didn't–"

The single door to the room burst open. "Hey, what's with all the shouting?" Detective Bobby Goren of the NYPD marched in, an innocent smile on his face. "Hey Bobby," he greeted Chase jovially, jesting at their shared first names.

"Freedman." The stern voice from the open door called the other detective out. Freedman rose from his chair with a grunt and a glare at Chase. Once he slipped out, Goren slipped into the vacated chair.

"Let me get these out of here," Goren said, rustling the scattered photos together in to a neat stack.

"I thought you worked in New York?" Chase asked as he forced himself to calm down.

On the other side of the mirror four people listened. Detective Eames watched the reaction of the suspect carefully in search of any tell that would confirm his guilt or innocence. When the New Jersey cops had informed both her and her partner that they should remove Robert Chase as a victim in the string of poisonings they were investigating she'd been confused and then amused as they told her the alternate theory they'd concocted.

There was no way the young man sitting across from her partner had killed two people so ruthlessly and then in some round-about retaliation someone had poisoned him. She'd been at this for a while and Robert Chase wasn't the type. The motive was also rather weak. The story the locals were running with was that Chase, desperate for funds, had agreed to threaten the Islington's into working with an organized crime group but something had gone wrong and what was supposed to be a simple roughing-up ended in a double murder. However, if Chase had done this for money then where was it? Sketchy on the details, all the Mercer County cops had been willing to share with them was that there was a connection to a mobster already imprisoned in Trenton. Though there was no clear path they thought this guy, Montrose, was the one calling the shots.

In the interrogation room Goren continued his carefully crafted conversation with the suspect. "Thought this might be related to our case so we came over again. You ever been to New York?" Goren asked in a friendly manner.

Chase greatly preferred Goren to Freedman. He didn't trust him but Goren seemed less likely to just try and pin a crime on the most convenient target.

"I've been once with a couple of friends. It's an alright city, a little loud."

On the other side of the tinted glass the door burst open and an unshaven man walked. "Heard you caged my Aussie."

"Dr. House," Detective Eames announced for the benefit of the others. She tucked a piece of blonde hair behind her ear as she warily anticipated the fallout the man was about to cause.

Back in the interrogation room the conversation continued.

"Honest answer. I like that." Goren added with a smile. "So why did you become a Doctor?"

Chase shrugged.

Goren noted the guarded posture and expression. "You're father, Rowan Chase, was a well renowned physician. He made quite a bit of money from the talks, the research he did, and the textbooks he wrote." Chase didn't respond. Goren could almost see the defences going up at the mention of his father. "What continues to…to confound me is that…well, look for yourself." He hands Chase a paper from the folder Freedman had brought in at the beginning of the interview. "You're up to your eyes in debt and your accounts are nearly dry."

"So what?" He didn't see how this was connected to the murders.

Goren understood Chase's confusion. He orchestrated it on purpose. It was his tactic to keep his interviewees of balance and the subject of his father was an easy way to get him there. "So, why didn't your father pay your school bills? It wouldn't have taken much for him to clear the debt that you're struggling with now, most of which should have been his responsibility anyway."

"He just didn't." Chase wanted to bring this subject to end. His financial troubles were nobody's business but his.

"He left you vulnerable again, even after you went to medical school to get his attention. But when you got there you realized… what? That he wouldn't have cared either way. Or that even if he did care it was too late." Goren tilted his head low until he finally caught Chase's eyes. "He'd already left you with your mother, abandoned you with an alcoholic. You were only what? Twelve thirteen?"

"It doesn't matter," Chase denied tersely. This was the last thing he wanted to talk about.

"Of course it matters! He set you up to fall all over again! Here you are struggling to make it and he doesn't even leave you a penny in his will!"

"I don't want his bloody money!" Chase yelled.

"No, you want the father that was owed to you!"

Chase glared at him for several seconds seeing something of himself reflected in the other man. "Isn't that what you wanted?" Goren blinked and sat a little further back in his chair. The expression on his face slowly, almost imperceptibly closed off. "It was your mother too, wasn't it? The one you blamed for driving him away for ruining everything because she was…" he couldn't find an accurate adjective so he left it blank. Goren would get his meaning anyway. Chase was sure. "Still you can't up and leave her to go follow him." She needs you. Chase looked away for several seconds. His eyes were locked on a crack in the old floor. His mind was trying to bury the hurt this discussion had dug up.

Goren sat silently watching the suspect as he closed the doors on his own issues. He considered returning to this ploy, trying to get Chase so riled, directing him so subtly that he blurted out the truth but he knew that the man was already there. All he had to do was wait and watch.

Chase turned back and reached for the stack of photos. He shifted the pile with his right hand, fanning out the pictures until he found the one he wanted. The crime scene photographer had snapped this picture to record the devastation in the living room of the townhouse. Chase noticed the picture not because of the toppled table or the shattered lamp on the hardwood floor or even the glimpse of a bloody hand at the corner of the photo. His eyes had been drawn almost immediately to the blood-stained portrait hanging on the wall in the photograph. The portrait was of Tina and Andrew Islington and their two children. Both of them were girls and they looked to be about eight and six years old. The smiling faces of the two dark hair cherubs stared back from the portrait through the photo with innocent, shadow-free eyes.

Chase sighed and pulled the picture from the group.

"I've got my problems," he smiled bitterly for a moment, "but I wouldn't do this. Especially not to them."

Goren knew that Chase was referring to little girls in the portrait without having to be told. He wasn't sure how he knew. It was the same way he knew that Dr. Chase hadn't killed these two people, no matter what his money troubles were. "For what it's worth," Goren started solemnly and met Chase's eyes, "I believe you." Goren's instinct wouldn't be enough to exonerate him. He'd bet that only his partner Eames and their boss would believe him if he told them Chase was innocent of this crime. His opinion, his instinct didn't hold any weight very far outside their jurisdiction.

The younger man looked away weary of the beating his composure had taken.

Detectives Morrison and Freedman chose that moment to enter. "Our suspect. We'll take over the interrogation," Freedman announced. He watched with satisfaction as the doctor's shoulders slumped. All he had to do was break his guy down and he could get him to admit to anything. Goren had showed him the big red button and he planned on pushing it constantly. He shook his head as he sat down across from Chase. It always came back to the parents.

"You want a drink?" Morrison asked. He placed a can of soda in front of Chase.

"No, thanks."

"Look I know you're tired but we've just got a few more questions," Freedman said. The underlying edge of hostility was poorly concealed.

The door opened again and a voice familiar to Chase burst in. "Anymore questions will have to wait. He's not under arrest, so he's free to go. Come on Chase." House beckoned the other doctor over.

Chase glanced between House and the detectives. He had no knowledge of the American legal system outside of what he'd seen on TV. He got up, willing to take the out if it was available. These cops were barking up the wrong tree anyway.

"Fine if that's how you want to do it." Freedman said darkly as he stood and rounded the table cutting off Chase's most direct path to the exit. He grabbed the arm of the blonde man. Chase tensed and pulled back.

"What are you doing?"

"Stop resisting!" The veteran law enforcer slammed Chase into the solid wall with enough force to have him loosing a breath. "Robert Chase, you're under arrest for the murders of Tina and Andrew Islington." He went on to recite Chase's Miranda rights while shackling his hands behind his back with the cold metal cuffs. Chase's eyes were wide with absolute shock. They were arresting him? For a crime he didn't commit? His eyes searched frantically, and in the end in vain, for something, anything that made sense. All he found was a similar though less obvious expression of shock on his boss's face.

"I didn't do this," Chase finally found his voice enough to make a weak protest.

"That's what they all say," Freedman said with a cruel smirk. He manhandled Chase out of the interrogation room to the lock-up for booking. House tried to interfere but Detective Morrison easily kept him at bay. He could only watch helplessly as they dragged Chase out of his sight.

"Get out of my way," House groused at the young detective as he tried to leave. He shoved the man, not too hard since he was in a building full of cops. Morrison glared at him but didn't stop him from leaving. House walked out flipping out his new cell phone (thank you Wilson) and dialling a number he knew off-head, though he wasn't sure why. He waited patiently for the call to go through and then for the other end to pick up. To his relief somebody was home and it was the one he was trying to reach, not her husband.

He tossed the pleasantries and got straight to the point. "Stacy, I need a favour. Do you know any good defence attorneys in Princeton?"

A sigh was sent over the line. "Greg, what have you done now?"

H 

**End Chapter 6**

It took so long to find information of the New Jersey Penal code. I hope I interpreted it right. I just sort of skimmed the relevant parts. :p (Can you blame me? It was 238 pages long!) The REALLY good stuff starts in the next chapter. I gotta get revising. Thanks for all the feedback! I love it so much!


	8. Chapter 7

Warning(s): Some violence, language, sexual assault.

**Chapter 7**

Twenty-four hours later Chase's mind was still spinning. He'd been booked, finger printed, even had his picture taken with one of those little boards with his name and some numbers on it. They'd interviewed him again, for hours. The sun went down and then came back up and the detectives were still throwing questions at him, trying to get him to admit to it. He didn't. Reprieve finally came when another detective came into the interrogation room and announced that he'd "lawyered up". According to the TV shows that meant they couldn't speak to him anymore without his attorney present. He didn't have anything to hide so he wasn't sure a lawyer would help or hurt his chances.

They eventually took him back to the lock-up to get some rest. He didn't sleep a wink. His mind churned with worries and disbelief. This was the kind of thing you read about or watched in a movie. This wasn't supposed to really happen to people.

Chase kept silent and still in the corner of the holding cell. Next to him, in the other cells he could hear others moving around, some of them talking to each other and other were sleeping. Too wired to sleep despite the weariness Chase could only think. They'd checked with the hospital. He had been working the night of May 18. Apparently that wasn't enough to get him off the hook. The hospital security tapes from that far back were gone and he couldn't prove he hadn't slipped out during his shift.

This whole thing was ludicrous! Nobody would buy this, Chase thought. His frustration was getting the better of him. He held on to this renewed fire because it was all he had. He couldn't prove his innocence but anybody with sense could see that he wouldn't have killed two people he'd never even heard of before yesterday. At least that's what he hoped.

Chase met his attorney Timothy Washington, a mulatto man with green eyes and hair cut short to his scalp, for the first time just minute before his case number was called in arraignment court. His sharp suit reminded Chase that he'd been wearing the same clothes for over a day and that he really wanted to go home and take a long hot shower. He didn't have time to do more than shake his attorney's hand before it was his turn to face the judge.

"Docket ending three-nine-seven-oh-one, people versus Robert Chase. Charges are two counts of murder in the second degree." The court officer's voice boomed over the general noise of the crowded room. The judge on the bench, Callister according the plaque resting before him, eyed the defendant as he took the file that was handed to him.

"How do you plead?" The old man asked.

His lawyer prompted him with a nod. "Not guilty."

"Why am I not surprised?" The judge made a notation in the file and then turned his lacklustre gaze to the Assistant District Attorney standing at a small table off to the side. "The people on bail?"

"We request remand, your honour," he said.

"That means I can't go home right?" Chase asked quietly to his attorney. Mr. Washington nodded quickly before interjecting, beginning the rapid discussion of bail. Chase barely kept up as facts about him were thrown around and he was left trying to determine how exactly they knew all this and how it would all fit together.

"Your honour, Doctor Chase is a respected physician, he doesn't pose a flight risk."

"I beg to differ, your honour. He's not an American citizen. He holds citizenship in both Australia and the Czech Republic."

"Doctor Chase," Washington stressed the doctor, "Is willing to surrender his passport. And considering the weakness of the prosecution's case remand is unfounded."

"Given the heinous crime, which left two little girls without a family, and the possible connection to a known member of an organized crime syndicate, remand is necessary." The ADA glared at Washington. Washington didn't sink to such petty gestures. He kept his gaze on the judge.

The wrinkled man hunched over in an attempt to lean forward and pierce the defendant with his gaze. The glare off his glasses from the harsh ceiling lights and the tired body ruined any effect Judge Callister was looking for.

"He doesn't look like much of a threat."

Chase's brows drew closer together. He remained quiet though, hoping that the judge was leaning his way.

"But I've got to go with the Mr. Harper. Bail is denied. Doctor Chase is remanded to the custody of the state."

"Don't worry. I'll come see you and we'll get this sorted out," Washington assured the young doctor who was looking at him with worry. A court officer came and guided Chase out of the court.

A double murder case and he was working pro bono? Stacy owed him big for this.

Washington sighed and stepped aside for the next and attorney in line and her client.

"You ready to take a deal?" the ADA asked Washington as he fell into step with the defence attorney on his way out.

"No. I'm ready to talk about dropping the case." He handed the paler man a folded, blue sheet of paper.

Harper unfolded and read aloud the legal sheet inside. "Motion to dismiss charges."

"I'll see you in chambers."

H 

Cameron returned from her dreary shift in the clinic to the conference room. She glanced at House who was on the phone in his office looking as nonchalant as ever. Foreman was working on a crossword puzzle from the newspaper. That was usually Chase's thing but the other man wasn't here today. He'd left early yesterday and Cameron, though curious, hadn't pried. Now she was too curious not to.

"Have you seen Chase?" she looked at the coat rack but his bag wasn't dangling there the way it would have if he were around.

"No. What time is it?" Foreman had lost track of the hours. With Cameron on clinic duty for the morning, House being a jerk as per usual and Chase being late he'd turned to the crossword for some company. He'd expected an irritated Chase to walk in some time soon and Foreman had been looking forward to grilling Chase about what was probably his first run in with the cops. He thought it'd be funny to listen to the Aussie cursing about cops with his usual Aussie-isms. And it would be nice to have someone in the group who had the same irritation for the bullies of law enforcement as he did.

Cameron glanced at her watch. The small and big hands of the silver timepiece told her "Eleven twenty-six."

"He should have been here by now." Foreman put the crossword down thinking that the damn puzzles really did make the time go by. No wonder Chase always had one. He'd been the first of them to start their fellowship under House. Passing the boring hours alone must have made puzzles a necessity.

"House, have you heard anything from Chase?" Foreman called. He'd informed House about Chase's run in with the detectives yesterday. His immediate reaction had been a laugh but an hour or so after that House had vanished and Foreman had only seen him again this morning.

"He's in jail."

Cameron and Foreman thought they'd misheard. They glanced at each other and then went to House's office.

"Could you repeat that?" Cameron asked.

House briefly took in their expressions. He picked up his gameboy and turned it on. "Mr. Washington just called to inform me that Chase didn't get bail. He's in jail."

Several seconds of silence filled the room. Cameron and Foreman looked at each other with equal measures of shock on their face. For Cameron this was the first she'd heard of any lf this. For Foreman it was the last thing he'd expected. What could Chase possibly have done to get himself thrown in jail. Foreman broke the silence and asked for details.

House rattled off what he knew without looking away from his gaming unit. "Apparently they think our guy from down under killed two people a couple of months back. They don't seem to care that he was working a shift here at the time the killings occurred. But I've got it covered. My lawyer buddy hooked me up with her lawyer buddy and I hooked him up with Chase."

"If he has an alibi then they have to dismiss the charges against him."

"Alibi? Dismiss the charges?" House looked up from his game to eye his black neurologist. "You really did go through the system."

"House!" Cameron was sick of his joking and had already begun to worry herself sick about Chase.

"Don't work yourself in to a snit," House admonished in difference to the expression he could already see taking over her face. Once she started worrying he'd never get her mind off of it. "Washington's got as many lawyer tricks up his sleeve as I have lawyer jokes up mine. Your playmate will be back before I can even miss him."

"Are you sure his lawyer is that good?"

"I asked him how much he made a year," House announced unapologetically as he executed a little move to pass the rider in front of him bringing him into first position. Foreman couldn't help but cast his eyes to the ceiling. "For that many digits he better be good." House paused the game and turned to pin his gaze on the two underlings that were still looking somewhat worried –Cameron just because she was Cameron, and Foreman because he knew the legal system. "Oh, go do something useful. The legal system is practically designed to keep rich, white people out of jail." He waved a dismissive hand at them and went back to his game. If they left him alone for long enough he was feeling lucky enough today to beat his high score.

Chase and Washington weren't at all lucky that day. While Chase's move to a real prison was being organized Washington was in the Chambers of Judge Callister trying to convince the jaded, old judge that Robert Chase couldn't have possibly done what the prosecution was accusing. He told him about Dr. Chase's alibi and the fact that they had no direct evidence of his client's guilt. The judge couldn't deny the weakness in the case. Still he was reluctant to let the suspect go. Callister's career on the bench was littered with tarnishes. Those who accused him of being harsher on minority and working class suspects dogged him relentlessly. He worried that soon they'd get the attention of his peers or worse the Bar Association. This case was the perfect chance to show them that he wasn't biased.

"You want direct evidence then tell your client to give us a DNA sample. We can test it against a hair found at the crime scene," suggested Spencer. He was working this case too as well as House's shooting. As one of the lead prosecutors in the DA's office and given the severity of the crime, his expertise was sought.

"I'm not going to do your job for you. You don't have enough evidence to even compel a sample," Washington stated. "It follows then, that they can't meet the burden of evidence for these charges."

"Your honour-"

Callister cut him off.

"I think they have met the burden for at least a DNA sample. And while the DA's case is shaky I'm not going to release a potential murder back on the streets." Callister signed the warrant for a DNA sample.

"Your honour-" Washington's outrage was evident even as he spoke two words of reverence. Callister didn't let him finish.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen. I'm needed in court." Callister's old legs took him from the room as quickly as he could without making it look like he was running.

Spencer knew he'd just skated by on this argument. Nine out of ten judges would have dismissed the case and told him to shove the DNA warrant up his ass. It was very lucky for him that Callister fell under the last one of ten.

As soon as he was outside Washington made a call to Dr. House who'd asked to be informed of the goings-on. He wouldn't break and confidentiality clauses, just give him the general facts. He could already hear the acerbic voice in his ear ridiculing him for not getting the case dismissed. "I deserve double my fee for putting up with this guy," the attorney mumbled to himself. He'd already agreed to take this case with no charge, so double of his fee for this case still got him a big fat goose egg.

"What?" the clipped greeting had Washington briefly closing his eyes and asking for strength. Maybe God would ignore his numerous little sins if he put up with this ass.

H 

"Well?" Wilson asked anxiously.

House slowly closed his phone, slipped it carefully into his breast pocket and re-settled himself in his chair in the cafeteria. Wilson was about to ask again but House spoke first. "Didn't work. Didn't get bail and he's still going to jail." House tilted his head to the side as he replayed his last statement in his head. "You think I could get a contract as a rap artist? I've got the subject matter down pat and I'm all about the hoes."

"I'll make sure Billboard saves a spot for you on the 'top ten who should have kept their day jobs.'"

"Now you're just being cruel."

"What are you going to do to help Chase?"

"Why is he my problem? What are you going to do to help Chase?"

Wilson slapped away the hand that was attempting to steal his lunch. "You don't have to pretend in front of me, Greg. I know you care about him." Wilson smiled knowingly at him, masking the small part of him that frowned. House had made Chase his problem when he went to the police station and tired to get Chase out. He went further by getting Chase a lawyer.

"Have you been watching _The View_ again? I'm going to have to lock out that channel on your TV."

"Like you did last time? I really appreciated all the Playboy channels you replaced it with. Julie thought they were great too."

"You still sore about that? That was ages ago." House took a bite of his rueben. "Anyway, if we can stop talking about you for a second," he wiped his lips free of a piece of food that escaped when he attempted to talk and chew at once, "I'm going to call my mob connection, get his buddies to look out for my jail-duck."

"The mob guy? The one who slapped Chase?"

"It wasn't anything personal," House shrugged. Bill Arnello was just misunderstood.

Wilson shook his head. He hoped it wasn't personal because Chase would be very vulnerable in prison. He didn't even want to think about it. What he did think about was an anonymous message House had received in his email.

"What about that threat?"

"What threat?"

"I know you get a lot of them," Wilson deadpanned, "but this one may have stood out because it was pretty specific. Particularly in the part where it tells you that they're going to make you suffer even if it means hurting everyone you care about."

"What did you, do memorize it?"

"House, it may have made a reference to Chase!"

House took another bite of his sandwich to save him from having to respond. He needed a second to think. When he swallowed again he told Wilson in no uncertain terms that he was an idiot for worrying about a dumb letter. He'd barely managed to keep the oncologist from calling the cops when they'd first read the message Cameron had found delivered to his email inbox. He didn't want to think that his disregard had lead Chase to jail.

When he went back to his office later, House fished out the crumpled printout from his trash and reread the last line several time.

"I know how much you like your pretty play-things so I'll be sure to send you the pieces that are left."

The vagueness of the statement was making sense now. The problem with vague statements though was that they could make sense in too many ways. You think people would have learnt their lesson after Nostradamus.

House sat the edge of his chair and scrunched up the already creased paper. His thoughts were heavy for a few seconds but he brushed it off and picked up his phone to make a call. He dialled the number he'd scribbled down on a small piece of paper many months ago and waited for someone to pick up. After several rings there was silence and then just a beep. He took that as a cue to leave a message and he did.

"It's Dr. House, the guy who saved your brother and then you gave that sweet car to. I need you to do me a favour. If you've got any friends in Trenton Prison have them keep an eye out for Robert Chase. You might remember him as the pretty-boy doctor you assaulted." House paused thinking about making a joke or a rude comment but he thought better of it. He needed this guys help after all. "Thanks." He hung up.

H 

Correctional facility. It's a bit of a misnomer. People don't usually go to prison and come out months, maybe several years later a better person. People, who for the most part are average people (just made an error or two) end up here and come out worse than they were. If it wasn't the oppression, then it's the violence, or simply being unlucky enough to be placed in the wrong cell. You talk to the wrong people, get the attention of the wrong person and all you get is grief. If you're lucky, you get out of everyone's way and you can serve your time with a modicum of peace. Others can't blend in so easily. A big mouth, a big attitude, the wrong connections and you're in for a lot of trouble. Or, in the case of Robert Chase, just the way you look could have everyone's eyes following you.

"Here you go," a uniformed man handed him a stack of clothing, and the few toiletries afforded to inmates.

Numbly Chase took them and followed the line of other men who were also going through processing. They'd taken everything he'd had with him and stored it in a small box to be returned to him if he were ever released. "You'll get it back if you get out of here," where the man's specific words. "If" not "when". He tried to play it off as only a minor difference, just one word, less letters than the average word in the English language. It wasn't important. Then why did he keep hearing the words echoing in his head, at times drowning out the directions the other correctional officers were giving him?

He'd made it this far physically unscathed. Mentally, well let's not get into that quite yet. The strip search and cavity search had been uncomfortable but he'd endured with a straight face and detached countenance. He'd put on the prison uniform with no external complaint and remained silent while he waited in line. He didn't make a fuss like some of the others, some who were so familiar with the prison they greeted the prison employees by their first names. Chase hoped that between the big attitudes and the big mouths he wouldn't be noticed.

"Hey, Pretty," the man in line behind him nudged Chase, trying to get his attention. "You wanna be my cell buddy?" He laughed. Chase ignored him.

"There a problem here?"

"No sir, no problem?" The man behind answered jovially to the security officer. The man in the prison guard uniform glanced briefly at Chase who didn't move to either confirm or deny anything. The guard moved on.

Chase's shoulders dropped in a small amount of relief as the man behind him didn't continue his crass attempt at conversation. He, however, was not the last one to engage in a conversation about him. Messages drifted to his ears, stories about what happened to people who looked like him in prison, even a couple of the guards quietly got in on the bashing. One in particular had taken a keen interest.

"Don't worry. I've already gotten you a nice cellmate. I made a pretty penny auctioning off the pretty boy." The CO gave him a rough pat on the shoulder and a malicious smile. His name was Theriault and he pretty much ran the prison. Sure Warden Stevens was the guy technically in charge but the day-to-day happenings filtered through Theriault. He had power over just about everything including inmate placements. He'd seen a picture of Chase twenty-four hours ago and he did what he usually did. He made his money. Cheap photocopies of the DMV picture were passed covertly throughout the prison and the bidding had begun at two hundred dollars. It escalated leaving many of the lower prison population in the dust in a matter of minutes. Guards loyal to Theriault passed the bids from the inmates to him, leaving him far removed from the situation should an undesirable person catch wind of the operation. It had never happened before since Theriault paid well for loyalty and it didn't happen this time either.

The final two bidders for Chase were Yarrow and, surprisingly to Theriault, Montrose. Montrose was a man who, despite his power, lived quietly in the prison. His interest in Chase made Theriault interested in Chase. Not interested enough to pull his offer of the new inmate but interested enough to begin watching more carefully.

In the end Theriault made over eight-grand even after the minor cuts were given out for the other players in his scam. Given the money those two cons had at their disposal and their apparent desire to have Chase as a cell mate Theriault knew that if he'd had more notice of Chase's arrival he'd easily have been able to double his take.

"You'll be in holding for twenty four hours. Tomorrow afternoon you're moved to your cells in the general population. If you have friends in there I suggest you find them quickly." Theriault's words echoed down the long wing lined with cells on each side. The new inmates walked into their cells, for most it'd be the last time they'd sleep in a room alone for several years. Theriault gave a nod of his head to the control both separated from the holding wing by a wall with a large window for viewing and a heavy set of doors. In the booth the woman nodded and pressed two buttons. The barred doors of the cell slid closed and locked simultaneously with an ominous and nerve-wracking clack.

Rob looked down at the metal toilet at the far right corner of the room and the cot with a thin mattress next to him. Still holding the paltry belongings designated to him he sat at the edge of the bed. His stiff posture eventually relaxed and he slumped forward to rest his head on grey shirt topping the stack of clothes in his arms.

A faint breath was pushed out of his nervous body, a shiver making the flow of air turbulent. He was scared, he wasn't afraid to admit it. This had all happened so fast. He would never have believed a story like this if it weren't happening to him. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, wishing, hoping, begging that this was a dream and that he'd wake up in his bed at home with nothing but his regular problems to worry about. When he opened his eyes he was still locked in a six by nine foot cell grey walls on three sides and steel bars to keep him in. Through the bars, across the hall to the cell on the other side he saw the inmate in there shake his head with and expression of what looked like pity on is face. The man lay down on his cot. Chase decided to do the same.

His arms still didn't let got of the burden he'd been given and he lay down to stare blankly at the equally blank wall not five feet from his face. He couldn't think, could only worry. He'd seen the movies, read the books, watched the shows. He knew what could happen to him. What would likely happen to him. It was bad enough day to day. The looks, the comments, the scorn for features he didn't choose and didn't expect.

Chase had been small and awkward as a child. Too smart to fit in with the kid his age he'd been put into a higher year and he'd been too small and too young to fit in with them. He lived a fairly solitary childhood with only a few friends until he was fifteen and his growth spurt hit at long last. Disappointed to reach only five feet and ten inches and drained by his mother's failing health he'd been blindsided by the attention he'd started to receive from perfect strangers.

As the cute, rounded face of quiet Robbie matured into the handsome face of Robert (even though he still felt like Robbie inside) the attention increased. Women and men began to talk to him with more than just innocent interest. His looks, he quickly realized, gave people the impetus to talk to him or more often just to stare. He really hated the stares, the jibes about his looks, but he'd learnt to deal with them and eventually to work them to his advantage. Still, some days it was easier to just ignore the looks and pretend that he was invisible again. In New Jersey's Trenton Correctional Facility he knew that he'd never see the return of his precious invisibility.

H 

"I delivered the information you wanted. Now I want what you promised."

Yarrow gave a vague head motion and the men at the front of his cell let the relatively unknown jack Moriarty in.

"Yeah, I got him and you get to watch your buddy squirm. What did he do to you anyway?"

"That's not your concern."

Yarrow smiled enjoying the other man's insolence. "Alright. No need to get bitchy. You've got my protection. The others will leave you alone. You've also got a cushy job in the tuck shop, all care of yours truly."

"What about the lawyers?"

"They're looking into your shit but they aren't miracle workers. You really fucked yourself over in this one. Shooting a guy in broad daylight, in front of numerous witnesses, getting caught by the hospital rent-a-cops with the gun still on you, and to top it off you leave your victim breathing."

"I wasn't trying to kill him," Moriarty defended tersely.

Yarrow clapped his hands together in exaggerated remembrance. "Right. You were trying to make him suffer –that's what it says in the police report anyway."

"Well you know a lot about me. So, what about you? What's Dr. Chase to you?"

Yarrow stood, nonchalantly brushing off some debris from his thighs. "I'll tell you what he isn't. He's not your concern. You and your demented friends had your chance. You fucked it up. Twice. You stay away from him or you'll be a stiff before lockdown. Clear enough?"

Moriarty nodded.

"Good! And make sure your people stay away. I don't want to hear anything about them snooping around. They do and I'll end them myself. Their work is done. And while I am grateful that doesn't guarantee anything."

Jack Moriarty just stared at the other man wondering about the wisdom of his choice. What had he gotten himself into? When he exited the cell under the watchful gaze of Yarrow's henchmen he knew he'd stumbled into something much bigger than the grudge he held against Dr. House. He still wasn't sorry though.

H 

"Here he is. I hope he's worth it," the corrections officer said as he left Chase standing on the tier in front of his new home. Chase stared down the narrow metal walkway, at the uniformed man who had abandoned him to the mercy of the prison population. His view of the guard was blocked when an inmate wearing the prison uniform with the sleeves torn off stepped in to his line of sight. Chase's eyes naturally went up to the man's face. The calculating look had Chase turning away but not before he noticed similar looks in the eyes of other prisoners.

"You just going to stand there?" The voice came from the man inside the cell. He was leaning against the discoloured grey wall facing the entrance, arms crossed. Chase estimated maybe mid-fifties for his age. His head was shaved but the shine of his scalp at the top and the dark shadow at the side told Chase that the man was another victim of androgenetic alopecia –male pattern baldness. Yet despite his years, his physique was powerful and well maintained. He could only see the man's forearms as his sleeves were rolled up, yet the definition there alluded to the same highly trained musculature over the rest of his body. "Well?" The prompt came after a few more seconds of the shorter man standing motionless.

Chase took a tentative step into the cell, which was bigger than he'd expected. It was about ten feet high with a width of seven feet and a depth of fifteen. Bigger than he expected but still small for two people to share.

"I have top bunk," his cellmate stated without moving from this position on the wall. Chase nodded and dropped his stuff on the bottom bunk. He turned back to the other man. After a moment of indecision Chase held out his right hand in a gesture that was far too friendly considering where he was now.

"Robert Chase," the younger man introduced. The older man managed to hide most of his surprise. Then his expression changed to an amused half smile as he righted himself and reached out for the hand.

"Emmanuel Montrose."

Chase expelled a breath of relief. Perhaps this man wouldn't be the brute the prison system made out of most inmates. His relief was short lived. The grip around his hand became a vice and before his eyes could even widen in surprise, he was swung towards the wall and pinned their by Montrose's solid bulk. Chase brought his left hand up to push Montrose away. Montrose caught the other hand and pinned it by the wrist above Chase's head. At the boundary of the cell several inmates had gathered and were laughing at Chase's predicament.

Montrose held his face less than an inch from his new cellmate's. The surprised expression was the first thing he wanted to wipe from that face. Never let them see weakness was the first rule he'd learnt here. He knew enough about prisons even before getting stuck in one that hadn't learnt it the hard way. He wanted to make sure Chase got the same advice the easy way too. There were many unwritten rules here.

"Never offer any part of yourself to anyone. Give an inch an' they'll take everything. Clear?"

Chase swallowed to clear his throat. "Perfectly. You want to get off me now?"

The taller man's dark eyebrows climbed up his forehead at the bravado. He tilted his head just so to the right. "I suppose." He pulled back a little removing some of his weight from Chase's chest, allowing him to breathe more easily. Carefully, taking care to ensure that his new cellmate wasn't about to retaliate, Montrose released the hand he'd pinned to the wall and brought it down to run through Chase's hair. The vibrant, sea-coloured eyes closed and he turned his head away but couldn't escape the touch. The bright, soft strands slipped through his fingers, caressing his skin like a delicate summer breeze and vaguely scented of freedom and sunshine.

The touch ended, much to Chase's relief. He turned to Montrose. "Do I pass inspection?" He asked with bite as he tugged the hand Montrose still held, the one Chase had stupidly offered.

A strangely soft smile briefly pulled Montrose's face. Quietly he told Chase: "I can see why he liked you." He pulled completely away and the expression vanished. "Hey! This isn't a fuckin' peep show!" He yelled at the inmates still crowding the front of his cell. They didn't seem to take offence. A few crass comments were thrown at the new kid and they left.

"Don't know if you heard but I paid quite a bit get you in this cell. Used to have it to myself so you're quite the sacrifice."

Chase wanted to ask if he was expecting a 'thank you'. He held his tongue.

"Your face is going to attract a shit-load of trouble. Make sure you don't bring any of it here." Montrose went for the single exit. "Oh, and don't touch my shit." He left Chase alone in his almost tastefully decorated cell, heading into the unrestrained and dangerous crowd of the prison.

Chase didn't dare follow or venture out. He sat down on his bunk, ducking his head not to knock it on the rail of the upper one. Sliding back to rest against the wall pulled his slightly too big prison-issue slacks low on his hips. He quickly pulled them up but not fast enough to prevent a wolf whistle from a passing inmate.

He sighed shakily and rested his heels on the edge of the bed. The underside of the top bunk provided no answers to the desolate man. His eyes weren't focussed on the old springs and supports anyway. For some reason he was worrying about his apartment. He laughed shakily at his own strangeness.

Across the atrium one tier up another inmate looked into cell thirty-four on 4-EE, plotting.

Leaning on the guard-rail a bald inmate followed the plotting man's gaze to the other cell "How much did you offer? Ten grand? I guess he might be worth it." He laughed. "Probably the most expensive piece of ass this half of the country."

"That's not why I wanted him," Antony Yarrow said. He didn't take his eyes off the far cell.

"Yeah right."

"I wanted him here because of Montrose."

The bald inmate, a member of Yarrow's prison grand, didn't understand. Sure he knew about the animosity between Yarrow and Montrose, being the members of rival crime syndicates ensured that they'd never be friends. What he didn't know was how the new meat was connected.

Without having to look over Yarrow knew the other man wasn't understanding. "Don't worry your tiny head over it, Vin." Yarrow walked away.

H 

The prison was fairly self-contained. The different wings, each added at different eras of the prison, spread out like spokes from the main building. One prison wing had even been made into the exterior wall in the early twentieth century. A new wing now enclosed what had once been the exterior wall with the prison wing and 3rd Street ending that era and adding on a new, uninviting orange brick exterior to the main entrance of the facility. Within the seventeen acre property smaller buildings had been erected for different purposes; boiler room, showers, laundry. The prisoners provided labour and, in some cases, the necessary skill to do repairs on the aging structures.

The few jobs available were highly sought after and (supposedly) handed out on the basis of seniority and good behaviour. Other than the manual labour there were other trades available. There was a shoe repair shop, laundry service, kitchen staff, and even a barber shop. Services such as the kitchen were watched closely by the prison officials while services like the barber weren't. There was a guard nearby of course but no direct supervision. Usually nobody really cared about the barber shop. The scissors never left the small room so they couldn't be converted into weapons and hair wasn't a big deal. At least it wasn't until Chase arrived.

Foreman and House had been by the day before, each providing a bit of support in their own way. Foreman had given him some tips and told him to cut his hair. It didn't take much thought to understand why and so that's what he was trying to do. Unfortunately the inmate in charge of the barbershop had been bribed a hefty amount by another inmate (or other inmates) not to let the newbie get a trim.

"Please. I just need a pair of scissors. I'll do it myself." He hoped he'd gotten his tone right. He wanted just the right amount of desperate that the man would feel sorry for him but not so much that he'd think Chase willing to do something drastic in return for the favour. The look in the convicts eyes told Chase that he had indeed succeeded in crafting his tone but it wasn't enough.

"Sorry, kid. My deal's been made before you even got here. All the shooters have it out for ya. Hell, even Rico offered a pinkie to make sure no one touched that pretty mop of yours"

Chase wasn't down with the lingo. He wasn't sure if shooters meant drug users or something else here. He didn't know who this 'Rico' was and he certainly hoped that body parts weren't a normal prison currency.

Proctor, the inmate in charge of the barbershop, laughed briefly at the mild confusion that the new Trenton resident couldn't quite hide. "A pinkie is a fifty, kid, not a finger. Now take off." He didn't want this kid around him. He was just going to attract trouble and attention. While Proctor wasn't a terrible inmate there were still some things that required the anonymity that came with being a lowly worker. After a few seconds he heard the young man walk away and was ready to forget about the whole encounter when he heard another voice.

"No help, huh?"

Proctor walked to the single entrance of the small room and peered out into the corridor.

"I'm Yarrow." The older and taller man held out his right hand. He looked to be about early to mid forties, slender but not skinny build and a hairstyle that even outside the prison walls would have been thought fashionable. The drab grey apparel graced his body and he was probably the only man who could look dignified in a prisoner's uniform. He was about average in looks, narrow face and thin lips, eyes somewhat on the beady side, unspectacular, unmentionable, Chase envied him.

He stared at it the man's offered hand having learnt his lesson.

"Yeah…right…" the other man said belatedly as he seemed to realize that such a gesture wasn't acceptable here. That this man made the same mistake as him already put Chase somewhat at ease with this new person. Yarrow dropped his hand back to his side. "I know it's not going to be easy but just so you know not everybody here is a thug. We don't all enter these walls and become the animals they try to turn us into." Yarrow's light brown eyes stared into Chase's suspicious blue-greens as he fished an object out of his pocket. "These what you wanted?"

Chase stared down at the small set of shears. Those were exactly what he wanted. He was reluctant to take them though. He didn't know what this Yarrow guy's angle was or what he wanted in return.

"Take 'em. No charge," he said with a wry smirk but it wasn't a threatening expression. Well, Chase could see no threat in it. He took them.

"Thanks." He considered going back to his cell to cut his hair with the aid of a mirror but that would mean walking through the corridor and through the commissary with his hair still at this length and carrying a weapon that could easily be turned on him should someone bigger or meaner come along. He decided to cut it right there.

He ran a hand into his hair catching as much of it as he could between his fingers. Holding the strands taught he cut between this fingers and his scalp. It was too much hair for the small set of shears. Many attempts were required and by the end the near-buzz cut that he'd been attempting ended with a length only a scant few inches shorter than the original. He struggled trying to it shorter and was somewhat successful. When he ran his hand through his new do he was satisfied with the result. It was uneven but it was shorter than it had been.

On the old and stained floor of the building the locks of blonde hair had gathered around his feet. They caught his eye and he stared down at them for several seconds contemplating what he'd done and what the prison had already taken from him. It was just hair but it had been his shield, a barrier from gazes surer and stronger than his own, a wall to strengthen the internal ones he hid behind, and something to distract people from what might be seen otherwise. His head felt cold. He felt exposed.

"Proctor's gonna realize he's missing a pair," Yarrow said amiably. An easy smile softened his sharp features as he held out his hand, politely and silently asking for the return of the scissors.

Chase, somewhat flustered –he'd forgotten about the other man's presence –handed back the scissors. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Yarrow continued to look at the new inmate who quickly began to feel uncomfortable under the gaze. He wasn't sure if Yarrow was waiting for something. The kind smile increased an increment the older man having found something amusing apparently. "You should get outta here." He nodded his head in the direction of the exit. "Just…" he pressed his already thin lips into a thinner line, mulling over his words. "…just watch yourself around Montrose. He's got a lot of secrets…and so did his son."

Chase didn't show his confusion but he'd figured there was a lot about most of these people that he didn't know and, for the sake of his sanity, probably didn't want to know. He nodded. After another set of seconds under the even stare Chase took his leave. His hand absently ran through what was left of his hair as though to reassure and remind him that with this new cut things were looking up, even though he was way, way down.

"Hey Pretty-boy, what have you gone an' done?"

H 

This was what he'd been worried about. He would have to go and look like that, be that young. Not even his standing threat to the other low-lives seemed to work. At every turn there was someone with an interest in his newly acquired property.

He was thankful that the prison news network was so quick and he was thankful to be nearby when the encounter descended into a fight. He kept his pace moderate as he walked out of the main building to one of the small side ones. He'd be even more damned if he drew the attention of the guards. Montrose rounded the first corner after entering the small building and after taking a second to gauge the situation and listen to the gibes he couldn't help but smirk. He wiped it away and approached.

"Shit, Connors you just got taken down by a little boy!" That one comment carried over the general noise and the laughter.

His back to the wall, Chase stood with his fists raised. Other inmates formed a semi-circle around him and the man who was trying to save face by picking himself off the floor before his head and his ears told him he was ready. The man's bloody nose left small splatters on the pale floor and elongated stains on his pants. He managed to stagger to his feet and within a few seconds was fully upright. The man was shorter than Chase but he had the advantage of a naturally muscular build further enhanced by the days upon years of weights and exercise. Beneath the dark skin muscles tensed and behind the dark eyes, anger and embarrassment provided fuel. He would not be taken down again.

Technically Chase had struck first. He'd only made it to the next building on the convoluted path to the exit created by the old and infrastructure and numerous renovations when he came upon this man Connors and one of his cronies. He didn't know anything about either of them. All his eyes could tell him was that they were inmates, they were black and they had seen him. Foreman had stressed the race was a big deal 'inside' Chase had hoped not to find out. He'd hoped the two men would continue the way there were going. They hadn't. Connors had blocked his path, cornered him. He'd tried to get by him, kept his words terse and even but he hadn't backed down and Connor's friend had only watched. He had barely hear the crass remarks over the pounding of his heart. He'd read the smile though. The last straw was when a large dark hand was passed through his short hair, around to the back of his head to end in a firm grip. Chase had shoved him away, struck first. Apparently that was all it took.

The first real hit came as a rapidly flying fist. Chase had managed to turn his head just enough that the blow was more glancing than direct, though it still hurt. He'd attacked next, kneeing the man in the stomach as his somewhat missed punch carried him past Chase's body. Shock and anger warred for dominance over the ebony skin and broad features. Hunched over he glared up at the blonde and then over his shoulder when his friend's comment reached him.

"I told you following your dick would get you in more trouble, 'Specially when Mont finds out."

Wide-eyed and still very much in fight or flight mode Chase had stared at the other man, glad to see that neither he nor the other inmates who had assembled were interested in coming after him too. He assumed "Mont" meant Montrose and wondered what repercussion there might be, both official and not for being caught fighting. He didn't have time to think anymore. Connors had recovered and announced it by delivering a blow to Chase's stomach. He didn't let Chase double over, instead held him up and sent his fist colliding in to the pretty face again.

The taste of blood had filled his mouth and an ache spread quickly through his jaw. Through the discomfort he'd seen a row of teeth as the full lips of his assailant pulled back in a harsh smile. A rushed, shaky breath steeled his nerves and fortified his anger. Chase rushed his head forward into Connors's nose. The blow had sent a ringing pulse through Chase's head as well but as the instigator he was ready for it and recovered quickly. While Connors stumbled back Chase kicked his legs sending the other man to the floor amid the cheers and boos of onlookers.

"Shit, Connors! You just got taken down by a little boy!"

Shoulders rising and falling with audible huffs of breath he looked up at the crowd, looking for anyone who might decide to take a shot at him. The angry aqua eyes fell upon Montrose.

Shit.

He knew he was in trouble but he wasn't about to apologize.

Montrose cut his way through the crowd. The recovered Connors was about to go on the offensive again and Chase noticed him too late. Before he could throw his next punch Montrose wrenched him back by the collar of his shirt.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he demanded. Connors froze. The crowd settled. Chase watched with a racing heart.

"…he…he…"

"I don't care what he was doing! I asked what the fuck you thought you were doing?"

A few of the spectators made their escape not wanting to be around anymore. Chase wished to make his escape too.

Montrose cut off Connors's response. "You even think of touching what's not yours again and I'll make sure you loose something that you're very attached to!" He shoved the other inmate away, watching him struggle to keep from falling and, once successful, beat a hasty retreat. Montrose turned to Chase and the murmurs rose briefly then settled to almost silence.

"…I-"

"I don't want to hear it." Montrose was so calm and controlled. Chase knew that meant trouble. That was all he had time to think before two large hands grabbed him by his shirt and pinned him to the wall. "I told you to stay out of trouble."

Not exactly, Chase countered mentally. Wisely, he kept silent.

The next thing he knew he was on the floor at the feet of the spectators having been thrown there by his cellmate. His shoulder and side ached from the collision with the unyielding floor and the jolt gave a burst of discomfort to the injuries sustained at Connors's hands.

"Magger," Montrose addressed without removing his glare from the young man he'd manhandled, "get him back to my cell."

A set of large hands practically lifted him up from the floor and then marched him away from the crowd. Chase didn't dare look back. He was having enough trouble keeping up with his escort. The prison seemed to fly by him and suddenly Chase was back in his Montrose's cell. He couldn't call it his own since he clearly didn't have any rights to it, hence it wasn't much of a relief to be back there.

Realizing that the hands were still on him Chase shook them off. Or at least he tried too.

Bloody hell! Couldn't he be left alone just for a little bit?

"You've got to be more careful. Mont's pissed but more at Connors and the others. It's been made pretty clear that you're his but it ain't always that easy. You've got to stay where the guards can see you." The advice was delivered just a little too close to his ear and the strong grip on his upper arms didn't allow him to pull away from the body whose heat Chase could feel at his back.

"Let go of me," Chase demanded in a steady voice, though the hands still holding him likely felt the tremours in his body. His adrenaline high was fading taking his strength and energy with it and leaving him at an even greater disadvantage. Just from his presence Chase knew that Magger was over six feet tall and padded with thick muscle. Chase also knew that he wouldn't be able to win a fight against this guy.

Magger didn't comply with Chase's order –gave no indication of hearing it at all. One hand let go only to travel around his waist and spread out over the quivering abdomen.

"I thought you said I was Montrose's."

Magger turned his bearded face into the short yet still soft hair and inhaled, taking in the scent of the outside world that still clung to him. "I'm his right-hand man. The job comes with fringe benefits." The adventurous hand slipped under the loose prison shirt to feel the soft skin hidden underneath. That was all he could take. Chase jerked in the grasp but Magger forced him into the wall and pinned him there. The side of his face scraping against the wall and the heavy weight pressed into his back left him helpless. The unwanted hand climbed high, squeezed at his pectorals then travelled low following his nausea.

"Magger," came a lightly admonishing call.

"Just playin'," the inmate said unapologetically, his hand still on its expedition.

"Matt." This time the tone was sterner and with a sigh the inmate released Chase who wasted no time moving away from his molester. His back collided with the end of the bunk beds. He couldn't get any farther without going around the beds which would mean having to get a little closer to Magger, a man with slumped shoulders and a large head, bottom half covered with a light brown beard and the top half capped with a shaggy mop of hair. Chase stayed there in the corner, eyes bright with distress and breathing too shallow and rapid to do him much good.

Magger just smirked, the expression almost lost in the long hair around his mouth, and headed for the exit. Montrose, standing just inside, gave a few low words to his friend who nodded and then left.

"You okay?" Montrose approached and before Chase could find the right words he grabbed the bottom of Chase's shirt and raised it trying to get a look at the bruises he knew were forming.

"Hey!" Chase hit the hands away and held his shirt down.

Montrose held up his hands in a placating manner. He backed up giving his cellmate the space he so clearly needed right then.

"As I'm sure you've noticed there are no women here and no offence but you're the closest thing that a lot of these guys are going to get to one in years. Most will overlook the different plumbing."

"Terrific," Chase muttered angrily. He wasn't a girl! He didn't even look like a girl (he didn't care what House said)! He hoped he was hiding it well but he really felt sick. The nausea had congealed into a full stomach cramp as the situation sank further and further in his mind.

"And that accent of yours isn't going to help."

Chase wanted to yell at him. To tell him that there was a whole continent of people who spoke just like him and that it wasn't a big deal. In the isolated population of Trenton it was.

Suddenly all his fight was gone. Listlessly he stepped over the rail at the end of the bed and ducked his head to get onto his bunk. He laid down on his side and closed his eyes briefly. Upon opening he saw Montrose's face not far from his and what he mistakenly thought was concern in the deep eyes, familiar eyes.

Chase tensed when Montrose's hand reached up and touched him. There was nothing sexual in the touch. Confusion crept in as the touch registered and did not change. The eyes looking at him stayed soft and the lips pulled down at the corners in a worried frown. Chase was too drained to argue, or question the unexpected expression of almost paternal worry. Maybe Montrose had dissociative identity disorder. It was the only way he cold explain these flashes of upset he sometimes saw on his cellmate's face.

H 

**End Chapter 7**

I'll try to get the next chapter up by Tuesday. I've been busy so revising has been slow going.

Sagga…


	9. Chapter 8

A/N: Short chapter, next chapter up soon. And the Prologue for this story occurs after Chapter 7 but before this one…so right about here. Just to let you know. Enjoy!

Warning(s): Violence. Language. Sexual Assault.

**Chapter 8**

"The patient's not getting any better." Cameron waited for House and Foreman to respond. With Chase in jail it was up to the three of them to work the cases. He really would have been helpful now as the patient was suffering from hypertension, tachycardia, sleep and memory issues, and they were having trouble keeping him stable.

"Guys!" Cameron finally called after several seconds without a response.

Foreman gave her distracted "huh?" He didn't take his eyes off the papers in House's hand and House didn't seem to mind this neurologist reading over his shoulder.

"What are you so interested in? The patient could be dying here! Given the neurological symptoms I thought the neurologist would be interested."

"I told you that you were too pretty to think. Or think very well anyway," House muttered.

"What are you looking at?"

"Playboy Centerfold," House told her, eyes still on the paper.

Cameron walked to the other side of the desk. It was a lab result. The logo in the corner however wasn't the PPTH one so it wasn't from the hospital.

"DNA comparison," she concluded after a quick scan of the document.

"It has to be wrong," Foreman said as though his word was final.

"Fine. We'll take that to the District Attorney. Doctor Foreman, seer of all, says the results are false." House threw the papers to his desk and got up. He brushed past his fellows.

"What are you talking about?" Cameron picked up the discarded papers while Foreman took the latest results from her. "This is about Chase's case," she stated as she read.

"They took a sample from him and compared it to a hair found at the scene. They say it matches." Foreman brought her up to speed. They'd all been keeping close watch on the double murder case that Chase had been charged with. They took turns going to see him every visitation day, three times a week, just to provide him a reprieve from the prison. Each time they saw him he looked a little worse and it had only been three weeks. His eyes had gone from panicked to haunted to almost dead. Prison was quickly wearing him down. Foreman didn't even want to think in any detail about how bad it was in there for a guy like Chase.

"Direct evidence to place him at the scene of the crime," House said as he came back from the coffee machine with a cup of the steaming liquid. "Now all they need is means, motive and opportunity."

"Ridiculing them isn't going to help," Cameron chastised.

House looked confused. "It makes me feel better. That helps me."

"Well it doesn't help Chase," Foreman said. "He was working here that night." He went back to looking through the patient's latest test results, putting the Chase dilemma out of mind for a little bit. House didn't.

The detectives insisted that Chase's whereabouts couldn't be accounted for during the entire night giving him ample time to kill the Islington's and then return. House had laughed out loud at the theory when Washington had recounted to him what he'd been told. He laughed even harder when he heard the poisoning was being considered as payback for the murders. His gut told him that Chase hadn't done this. His brain told him that the retaliation motive for the poisoning was a load of horse-shit because the poison was given to him and he could have drank it or given it to anyone. Besides, his little intensivist was pretty passive unless you really pushed his buttons. House liked to think he was the only one that could.

If their hunch on Chase's innocence was correct then it meant that someone had planted the evidence. There weren't a hell of a lot of people that had that kind of access. And there was the bigger question of 'why'. Why Chase? Why now? House hated whys, mostly because the answer to a why question could be as simple as a shrug and 'why not'. Believing in the worst in people usually settled those whys to a few reasons, the top seven landing on the deadly sins. In this situation House was leaning more towards the 'greed' motive. Somebody had something to gain by putting Chase in prison. Who and what House didn't know. He was a medical super-sleuth not a criminal one. This was something for the detectives from New York that he'd chased out of his house.

"It's not Sick Sinus Syndrome," Foreman announced in regards to their patient. The tilt table test showed no cardiac abnormalities, other than the rapidity of the beating. Their guy had come in two days ago at four a.m. to the ER with unstable cardiac rhythm. The ER doctors were at a loss to explain the heartbeat that had spiked for no apparent reason. The man was already on a medication to dilate the blood vessels to the heart as he'd suffered attacks like this one before. Unfortunately he seemed to be getting worse so the diagnostics team had been assigned the case.

House had only being paying half his usual attention to the ailing gentleman. Cameron had practically had to drag House out of his office so that they could do a differential. The white board listed the symptoms: hypertension, exhaustion, angina, migraines, weight gain and memory loss. There were some gaps in the list where they'd erased symptoms that were side effects of the man's medication and not part of the actual illness.

"Well Sick Sinus was my idea. It's your turn now," House said. He took a sip of his coffee and pulled a face. He couldn't even make his coffee how he liked it anymore. That's the problem with minions.

"You just wanted to play with the tilt table," Cameron countered.

"Can you blame me?" He turned to Foreman. "Foreman, make me my coffee."

"You already have one."

House gave him a hopeful look. "You make it better."

"Look at Mister Fields and I'll make your damn coffee!" Cameron was the primary for this case so she was the one who had to deal with the suffering patient and the suffering family. She wanted to tell them some good news.

House raised a brow saying, "That's actually more of a threat than a bribe." Foreman relented and made House another cup of liquid energy. He could get really cranky without his coffee.

"There's nothing wrong with my coffee!"

House and Foreman traded a brief look.

Cameron sighed. "Mister Fields, please."

"Right. Heart-guy." He traded his less-than-tasty cup of coffee for the one his neurologist made and took a sip. "Mmm. You ever think of working at Starbucks?" He continued to sip at his hot beverage as he headed for the exit. "Our guy still in the ICU?" He didn't wait for an affirmative response. Just headed for the stairs. Cameron and Foreman watched in shock as House stepped easily up them. He'd been walking without the aid of his cane pretty well given that he was missing part of his right thigh but he'd avoided stairs, apparently just on principle.

At the landing between floors he turned to their gaping faces. "Yes, I've been faking all these years there's really nothing wrong with me." He continued up.

Cameron followed with a smile. After a shake of his head Foreman caught up with them.

"Mr. Fields!" House announced loudly as he walked into the ICU room. "Are your cookies as good as your wife's?"

The balding man was sitting up in his bed with all the lights out. The harsh hospital lighting aggravated his migraines and anything touching his head did the same. His only option was to sit up.

The glassy brown eyes slowly drifted to the door where House stood. "What?"

"Not the wittiest guy I've ever met," House stage whispered to Cameron on his left.

"Who are you?" an unfamiliar woman asked from the door as she entered behind the medical team.

"Mrs. Fields, this is Doctor House. I told you about him," Cameron quickly assured the older woman.

"Did she tell you about me?" House asked the other Fields, the one with all the problems.

"Um…no. Unless…are you Doctor Foreman?"

Mrs. Fields, Cameron and the real Dr. Foreman were silent, shocked at the progression of the man's memory loss.

"Don't worry. People get us mixed up all the time."

Only because of your egos, Cameron said mentally.

House became serious suddenly as he noticed something on the man's side table. He picked it up –a nasal strip.

"The night shift ICU doctor gave them to him to help with his snoring. They aren't working," Mrs. Fields supplied.

"You snore," House said to Mr. Fields sounding as though that was the diagnosis in and of it self. "I assumed it's not the funny snoring but the loud, annoying, your wife can't sleep because of the train wreck sound effects in the bed next to her." He turned to Mrs. Fields. "That or you're eyeliners been running really badly." The dark smudges beneath her eyes were clear signs of lack of sleep. She'd been covering them with make up but with her husband in the hospital she was skipping many of her usual morning routines, including her skilful application of foundation. "If your ICU doctor had enough sense he would have made a little note somewhere to let us know of this particular symptom."

"Snoring isn't a symptom," Foreman stated.

"Sure it is. Why do you think I'm always telling Chase to stay over night to watch the patient? It's not just because I don't like him."

"So severe snoring is causing his heart problems?" Mrs. Fields tried to follow.

"You having nightmares lately?" House asked the patient.

Mr. Fields nodded tiredly. His wife elaborated for him. "He wakes up a lot in the middle of the night from them. He told me he had one last night too."

House sighed wishing that Chase was here. He would have told the intensivist to keep watch of the patient over night. Chase would have noticed the nightmares and the snoring and they would have been able to figure this out ages ago. And if Chase hadn't noticed these symptoms then it would have been time hire a new intensivist. At least they knew now. Well he knew. Now he had to tell everyone else.

"You have obstructive sleep apnea." House dropped the little plastic strip back on the side table. "When you sleep your body paralyses itself so you don't act out your dreams. For some unlucky people like you that paralysis goes a little too far and your upper airway collapses, stopping you from breathing. Oxygen levels in your blood drop so your heart starts to pump faster in an attempt to get more oxygen to everywhere that needs it…which would be everywhere. Brain starts to go nuts with the low oxygen. You get nightmares, wake up, start breathing again but are still left with the "inexplicable" heartbeat." House turned to face his small, fully awake audience. "His cardiac meds just accelerated the problem by dilating the arteries. One method of increasing blood flow was already gone so the rapid heart beat was next in line."

"Can this be fixed?" Mrs. Fields asked for her husband who didn't react at all to the explanation. He probably hadn't really heard a word of it.

"A positive pressure mask should be enough to keep his airway open," Cameron said. Providing House's diagnosis was right, the mask would help. "He just has to wear it while he sleeps."

"It's very styling. Very _Star Trek_." House walked out.

"We'll schedule him for a sleep test tonight to confirm."

Mrs. Fields tore her eyes away from the strange man who'd just left to Dr. Cameron. "So he'll be okay?"

Cameron smiled as she was finally able to give her some good news. "He's going to fine."

Mrs. Fields smiled and went to her husband.

Foreman stood next to Cameron. "So I guess we'll have to figure out which one of us stays over night to watch the patients."

"Alternating?" Cameron suggested as she watched the Fields talk quietly.

Foreman nodded. "Alternating will do."

House scurried back to this office. His case now taken care of he could focus on the other puzzle, Chase. He still couldn't understand how Chase had managed to get himself in so much trouble. House would ask when he got him out of there. He hoped his name didn't come up in the answer.

Plopping on his chair he reached for his top drawer where numerous objects rolled around crashing into each other as he tugged it open. What he was looking for had settled at the bottom. Detective A. Eames, NYPD Major Case Squad, 1 Police Plaza, the card read. Greg was glad he hadn't thrown it out.

He dialled the number knowing that the long distance charge would show up on the hospital record.

Eventually the ringing stopped and a pleasant voice was heard. "Detective Eames, Major Case."

"It's Doctor House from Princeton. You came to see me about the poisoning."

"Right." She didn't need a reminder of who he was. The name House immediately put her in a bad mood, her tone soured. "What can I do for you?"

"Somebody's framing my fellow. I was hoping your detective skills would come in handy."

H 

Meanwhile, at Trenton New Jersey State Prison, House's fellow was cornered. The corrections officers had come to his tier and taken all the inmates there to the showers. The old compound had the newer shower facilities separate from the cellblocks so Chase had taken a change of clothes and a towel and gone with the rest of the procession. Montrose had been behind him the whole way and Chase had felt more secure with him there. Montrose had become, over the past few weeks, Chase's only ally. The older man was hot and cold with regards to his new cellmate, which confused Chase immensely. The man had paid for him to be assigned to his cell. Rumour had it he'd paid Theriault over ten thousand dollars, yet the man had never once touched him in a remotely sexual manner.

Usually the two just silently tolerated the other's company. Montrose had showed him the ropes and even included him with his posse on occasion. Still at other times Montrose was almost hostile towards him, taking great effort to exclude him from the rest of his group. Chase had yet to determine whether there was any pattern to Montrose's behaviour but today had seemed like a good day.

Montrose had stayed close, a watchful shadow, until they'd made it to the showers where they'd been separated. Theriault had divided the men up into groups. Chase thought that it was deliberate that he separated him and his only ally. Theriault had been on his case since he arrived, pulling him aside to talk privately with him, stopping by his cell more often than any other. All the encounters left his nervous.

Now as he stood with his back against the lockers, four large men in front of him, Chase wondered if Theriault had known this was going to happen. Theriault kept telling him to "expect an initiation" and there had been a strange malevolence in his smile when he separated the groups for the different shower rooms.

"Don't make this hard for yourself," a tanned man advised as he took a step towards Chase.

Automatically Chase's fist drew up causing the other men to laugh.

"You going to fight us?" Another asked. "It's always more fun when they fight." Those seemed to be the magic words. Without warning the four men advanced. Chase threw a punch catching one guy in the jaw. That would be the best shot he got off in this encounter. Several blows were delivered to his face and stomach by the group of assailants. Outnumbered by the four men, each of whom outweighed him, Chase was soon helpless. A strip of fabric was tied to gag his mouth and muffle his cries for help.

Around them Chase pleaded with his eyes for another inmate to help him. One of the unwritten rules of Trenton was not to involve yourself in fights that had nothing to do with you. Nobody helped him.

As the assault played out in the corner the other prisoners stripped and went to shower. A few cast looks towards him but that was all. One of the younger inmates approached a look in his eye that said he was outraged and ready to fight. He was stopped halfway to Chase's side by an older, wiser friend and was dragged off. Chase was alone.

They wrestled him to the floor. One inmate slid behind him to hold his arms back as the others tore at his grey uniform. The tanned man with dark hair that given him the chilling advice earlier undid the fastener at the top of Chase pants and pulled. Chase's panic heightened and his kicking legs caught the tanned man in the groin. He rolled to the side clutching at his injured area while another inmate replaced him to strip Chase. This time the third man held Chase's legs. The pants were soon slid to his mid thighs taking the underwear down with it. Naked from waist to thighs and restrained securely Chase struggled, twisting side to side in vain attempts to keep the rough hands from exploring his body.

"Turn him over." The order came from the man recovering from the blow to the crotch.

Chase renewed his efforts to escape as they tried to flip him. He didn't see the fist coming at his face. The sudden bright white pain disoriented him for a second, just enough time to turn him on to his front.

"I bet you're real tight," The man holding down his torso crooned viciously. Chase could barely breathe with the weight on top of him. When the hands began to grab at his ass his cry of protest was nothing more then a whimper with the gag in his mouth.

"Shut up!" A hand fisted in his hair. Though it was shorter now than it was when he'd first arrived there was still enough length to grab on to and strike Chase's head into the tile floor. The cracking sound reverberated through his skull bring with it a darkness around his eyes that he could only just keep from taking over his entire vision.

"Hurry the fuck up!"

"You'll get your turn."

The words sounded like they were coming from far away yet the panic that gripped him, the nausea, rage and fear were so close they suffocated all other thought.

Just as quickly as the attack began it was over. Chase lay on the floor panting trying to figure out what had happened.

"You're okay."

Chase didn't realize the weight pinning his body was gone until a gentle hand touched his shoulder and he flinched away.

"Whoa! Easy,"

The man crouched next to him Chase recognized. He was Yarrow. He'd introduced himself just two days after he'd arrived, helped him get the shears from the prison barber shop to cut his hair. Chase hadn't interacted much with the that particular inmate since then. The animosity between Yarrow and his cellmate, Montrose, made contact or interaction difficult and Chase didn't need to make an enemy of one of his few, intermittent allies.

"You're okay. Let me help you." Yarrow reached forward towards Chase's face. Chase startled. He tried to move away but as he was already in the corner all he could do was get himself to a seated position with his back against the wall. "I'm just going to untie this," Yarrow placated as he slowly reached to Chase's face. He let this fingers brush across his cheeks as they travelled around the attractively sculpted face. The knot came away after only a few seconds of work. Yarrow pulled it away from the bleeding lip with care. "You alright?"

Chase tried to nod. His limbs felt limp. The commands he sent to his hands to get them to pull up his pants resulted only in shivers. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself.

"It's okay. We got here in time," Yarrow's voice informed.

Chase managed to gain a little control and noticed that there was no pain other than from his head and gut. He hadn't been raped.

He cringed at the word. Drawing back deeper into the corner and taking breaths to still the unrest.

"Vin, help me out here," Yarrow gestured for his friend and bodyguard who'd been standing a few feet away to come over and assist. The two helped Chase to his feet. Yarrow righted his clothing though there was nothing he could do about the ripped shirt.

"I'm okay," Chase said weakly.

"For the most part," Yarrow agreed as he probed with careful fingers the area around cut on Chase's forehead. Just above his temple near his left brow the laceration was leaking blood. The warm liquid dribbled down the pale face tracing his cheekbone and jaw before dripping to the still warm tiles where Chase had been pinned only a minute ago.

"I'll get him to the infirmary," Yarrow told Vin. The heavily muscled man nodded and watched as his boss led the kid out of the shower room. They'd "saved" Chase from being assaulted. Of course it didn't really count since Yarrow was the one that had set up the whole thing –with some help from Theriault. Vin did wonder though, if they hadn't come in when they had would the kid have been raped. The assailants were under orders to make it look like they were going to. They may have gotten carried away. It wasn't everyday something that nice-looking walked into a prison.

Vin shrugged and went to take his shower. This was Yarrow's mess. If asked he had nothing to do with it. Loyalty in prison only went so far.

H 

The prison infirmary was small considering the number of inmates housed there. They were staffed by two doctors and a few nurses. Chase couldn't help thinking it was a crappy posting even as the cut on this face was cleaned and pinched closed with two small strips of sterile tape.

"It shouldn't leave a scar," the nurse told him. Chase didn't hear, still lost in his own world. The nurse noticed his inattentiveness and called the doctor over.

"Robert."

Yes, Chase responded in his head.

"Robert." This time a bright light being shone in his eye accompanied his name. He flinched away from it.

"What are you doing?"

The doctor put away his pen-light. "Trying to get a response from you. How are you feeling?"

"Okay." He realized too late that if he said he felt bad he probably could have stayed in the infirmary and avoided general population for a little while longer.

"The cut's not bad. It shouldn't scar and other than that and some bruises you'll be okay."  
Chase nodded.

"He can go back now," the doctor told the CO. The corrections officer took Chase by the arm and guided him out. The nurse cast him a sympathetic look knowing without having to be told what problems he faced. She went back to work treating the other low-lives.

"What happened?"

Chase walked past Montrose ignoring his question. If he'd ignored someone else like that he'd have paid for it but Montrose had never hit him and didn't seem like he was going to start. With stiff movement he laid himself out over the lower bunk. His eyes slipped closed as soon as his body's protest died down.

"Robert."

The mouth that called his name was close to him. Montrose was probably crouched in front of the bunk, eying him, searching for or contemplating something. That seemed to be the position Montrose took whenever Chase slipped into one of these funks. Three weeks of physical and sexual assaults, threats and taunts left him weakened and prone to episodes of melancholy. He felt heavy and tired. And his head was pounding. Chase opened his eyes and for a moment he thought he saw someone else. He blinked and the effect was lost. The nose was too broad, the cheeks too drawn. The lines around the eyes were too prominent, although the pain behind them still seemed familiar.

"You said you knew why he liked me." Chase watched the other man's face drop further.

"Yeah, I did." Montrose had let the words slip the first time he'd met Chase, when the young man was dropped off at the front of his cell.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Montrose sighed heavily trying to expel the unrest rapidly building. It didn't work. He scooted back until he sat on the floor leaning against the wall. "How did you find out?"

"You look like him. And Yarrow made a comment."

"Lockdown!" the call from somewhere in the cellblock came. A few seconds later the doors to their cell and all the cells in the block slid closed and locked. Chase relaxed a little, feeling less vulnerable locked away from the other inmates.

"You've been talking to Yarrow?"

Chase could hear the tension in Montrose's voice. He knew that Montrose and Yarrow didn't get along. Right now he didn't care. "He helped me today."

"Really?"

Chase remained silent on that issue instead repeating his previous question. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Montrose looked out the barred entranced.

Chase continued in a numb tone of voice. "He didn't talk about you and I tried not to push. Maybe I should have. Because there's something going on here...secrets that have come back to haunt." He watched with detachment the rise and fall Montrose's Adam's apple as he swallowed something bitter and sad. The main lights in the atrium went off with a clang. The dimmer lighting from the tiers caught the excess water glazing over the older man's shadowed eyes. Numb as he was, as uncharitable and unsympathetic as he sometimes was when the anger as Zid overcame him, Chase did understand a little why he'd kept locked away everything about this particular topic. No one wanted to advertise that they were the son of a criminal. "Why didn't you tell me that you were Zinedine's father?"

A shuddered breath found its way past trembling lips. "Because I didn't want you to know…that I was the reason…" His chest hitched. "…the reason that my son…killed himself."

Chase didn't react, too isolated from the moment and the revelation. Montrose stared forward looking mostly through him as he again faced the mistake he made so long ago that had lead to both the creation and demise of the best thing he'd ever had in his life.

Montrose hurried to cover his face as a tear fell from his eyes. He wasn't fast enough and Chase saw. He felt his own heart begin to ache for his loss and Montrose's. Zinedine had only mentioned briefly that he was estranged from his father. Chase had encouraged him to make peace (like he'd wanted to and wished he had when he had the chance). Zid had sighed and told him he'd think about it. Instead he went to his mother trying to patch things up between them. It obviously hadn't gone well because the day he returned he'd ended his life.

A choked sob returned Chase to the moment and he watched as Zid's father did what he never could. Not even for someone he loved.

H 

"Detective Drew Freedman received a commendation in Princeton PD for his work taking down a section of a pretty small-time organized crime ring. That seems to be the highlight of his career. The rest had just been reprimand after reprimand. Excessive force, evidence tampering, suborning perjury; it reads like a "Don't do what Johnny Don't does" of Law Enforcement." Eames settled into her chair behind the desk that was pressed back to back with her partner's.

"How is he still on the force?"

Eames shook her head, quickly scanning the file. "His father was a cop –hopefully a better one than him –probably an old boys club."

"With a history of evidence tampering somebody should be suspicious of the sudden appearance of a hair on the clothing on one of the victims. A hair with a root for DNA comparison no less. So, he's on our radar…but…" Bobby rested his chin in his hand. "Maybe the question to answer isn't who framed Doctor Chase, it's why." He paused to think for a moment. "What was the name of the guy who shot Doctor House?"

Eames flipped through her notes. "Moriarty, Jack."

Goren swivelled his chair to the laptop computer off to the side of his desk and typed the name into the police database. "He's incarcerated at Trenton."

"Let me guess, it's same place Doctor Chase was sent."

"If Moriarty is still looking to hurt the doctor that ruined his life, maybe he's decided to do it with a surrogate. The poisoning proved that it's possible to get to Doctor House through the people around him."

"If Moriarty is the one behind the poisoning then he must have friends on the outside, friends who copied Cooper." They'd arrested the man suspected of murdering the doctors in New York with the gyromitrin poison just four days ago. From what they could tell, he hadn't struck anywhere outside the city which left Dr. Chase's poisoning as an anomaly.

Goren nodded in agreement. "I don't think he has the type of connections that could get Chase framed for a double murder though. That would take a lot more power. We have to figure out who else benefits from all this."

H 

Time crawled by. Weeks slowly being made up of the days within, the sun rising and falling with each and brought in its cycle only the promise of more tension and more pain for Rob. He could barely separate the days from each other, drained as he was. They bled into each other and sometimes he bled on those days. He never forgot the visitation days though. He looked forward to them. He wasn't keen on letting his colleagues see him in his current state but he wasn't about to turn down an opportunity to get away from the general population. Today he'd seen Wilson who was a nice change from the usual rotation of Foreman, House and Cameron, Sunday, Wednesday and Friday respectively. Wilson had told him that House and the team were busy with a case and he'd envied them so badly, yearned so strongly to be back at the hospital with them.

Wilson informed him of the case and Chase had jumped in to the distraction with both feet.

Wilson had been going on about the strange MRI results that had stumped even House when Chase had reached out to touch his tie and the words abruptly ended.

"Sorry," Chase had apologized but not taken his fingers away form the soft silk.

"It's okay," Wilson forgave easily. He hadn't interrupted. He'd watched the dulled gaze trace the dizzying pattern on the tie and was thankful to whatever flash of inspiration or bad taste had led him to buying and wearing this hideous piece of clothing. Chase let go of the bright piece of clothing after his internal commentary about the distinct lack of color in the prison was over. Wilson had gone back to explaining about the case their colleagues were working on and then time had run out.

Chase had given him a weak and heavily forced smile as he said goodbye and turned to go. Wilson had only debated for a second the wisdom of what he was considering before he actually did it. He pulled Chase into a hug. Not a tentative one or a quick one. His arms were closed tight around the frame of the intensivist and their bodies pressed together. When Chase had responded by burying his face in the other man's neck and hugging him back Wilson closed his eyes and wished for an end to this terrible mistake.

Chase could still feel the ghost of the oncologist's warm touch on his neck and the whisper of breath across his ear. Stepping into the large room where the smells of food emanated took away the soothing memory of the day's earlier visit and brought back the cold reality of his setting. The faint but chilly breeze tore away the warmth and chilled his mood as well. He was barely responsive to the man behind him that tried to engage in a conversation while they waited.

"He told me about you."

"I wasn't aware he was speaking to you at all." Chase said evenly though with a bit of strain. God, he hated meal times; too many inmates, too many eyes following him, too many comments not quite behind his back. Montrose would have to forgive him the tension. The food was bad enough to keep anyone away and the atmosphere of the mess hall only made the place that more repulsive. He'd skipped a lot of meals and because of that lost some weight that he didn't need to lose in the first place. He only risked coming here when he worried he'd become too weak to defend himself from another altercation. It was a hard threshold to gauge because coming here put him at risk for more unfriendly encounters. Damned if you do, damned if you don't was a fairly apt summation.

The only other occasions that he braved the dangers entailed with getting something to eat was when Montrose was with him. The bigger man was no longer hot and cold about him –maybe a lukewarm. Chase deduced he was worried about stirring prison politics should he include Chase in his posse or if he just let him out on his own. So far this method of transient interest seemed to be working. It was also doing a number on Chase's nerves.

It must have been his fidgeting that pushed Montrose into trying to get Chase's mind out of the prison since the calm he'd had after visitation seemed to have fled. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, even though his left ankle protested the motion –another keepsake of another narrowly evaded encounter, as was the bruise under his right eye, the scrapes on his knuckles and the smattering of dark areas hidden by his loose prison clothing. He tried not to look like he was hugging himself but he was cold. There was a draft in the large open room that served as the dining area for the state's guests of Trenton.

Chase shivered again. Didn't anybody else feel that?

"I suppose it doesn't really count as speaking. It was just a letter." Montrose shrugged easily while his eyes surveyed their surroundings and the edgy man in front of him. "It was still nice to hear from him. I think I have you to thank for that."

Chase was barely keeping up with the topic. "Really? How so?" He startled as a tray was dropping producing a cacophony of discordant and sharp tones. The mess hall broke out in applause, further alienating and emphasizing the inmate who had lost his meal to gravity and a conveniently placed foot.

"He mentioned you. Said that he was writing so that he could at least tell you he tried to contact me. Not sure if he really wanted to send it…"

"He did, didn't he?" He hid behind the sarcasm as another man he knew was so fond of doing. Though there was not trace of it in his tone he was surprised that the one brief discussion with he'd had with Zid about his father had resulted in something. The new information only made his loss that much deeper.

"Yeah, he did. He said he really liked you. Told me some about you. It seemed to be the most natural part of the whole message –when he described you. He was happy."

The discussion trailed off. The line slowly shifted forward dragging the two men along with many others with it.

"Could I see it?" Chase asked over his shoulder a minute of silence later.

Montrose shook his head. "Don't have it anymore. It's lost or…something." He wasn't going to tell Chase that he thought it had been stolen. That would lead to too many questions.

"…oh."

Emmanuel stared at the back of the blonde head. The short strands at the back where Chase had done a better job cutting it were darker than the strands up top where he'd had more difficulty. He wasn't going to let Chase know that he suspected it was Yarrow who now had the letter. It was worthless, just a personal item and he'd learnt not to get too attached to anything lest it be construed as something of value and then held against you. It was hard to do that when it was a correspondence from your only child. It also hard not to want to protect the only person that had ever made his child happy (Zinedine had said so in his letter). With the letter in his hands Yarrow must have known too and an unsuspecting Chase had been dragged into a conflict that in a better world he'd have no place in.

**End Chapter 8**

I had to split my intended Chapter 8 into two parts because it some how gained a few pages when I was revising. I'll post chapter nine in a couple of days (probably Friday maybe Thursday) since it's just about done.


	10. Chapter 9

A/N: Aww! You guys are the best! I've gotten such great comments and I really appreciate them. I hope the rest of the story lives up to everyone's expectations. Enjoy! –Sagga

Warning(s): Violence. Language. Sexual Assault.

**Chapter 9**

Theriault held the small gun that was in his desk as he watched the inmate settle in the chair on the other side of the desk. Yarrow had been searched before being allowed to enter and there were two of his most trusted officers just on the other side of the door. All that, he knew, would not be enough to thwart a desperate inmate. He'd been attacked once before and had been pretty severely injured. He was not going to allow a repeat of that incident. The small calibre firearm had been purchase a week after that incident and once he snuck it into the facility it remained in his desk, loaded and ready to fire.

Yarrow, a fairly high up crime boss, wasn't a desperate man. His prison term was almost over and during the time he had spent inside, he'd been well taken care of. All his actions now spoke of planning for his eventual release. Tax evasion could only keep him inside for so long. Theriault was still trying to understand how the Chase kid fit into any of this.

"I want Robert Chase moved to my cell," Yarrow demanded.

Theriault leaned back in his chair, his confusion well sheltered by the sly look on his face. What was it with this kid that these two powerful crooks both wanted him? Could he possibly be that good in bed?

"Why?"

Yarrow shook his head as he smiled. "You don't really care about that." His voice was telling Therialt that he better not look hard into the request. Yarrow's next statement would serve as distraction enough to keep his plans safe at least until he was out of here. "What you do care about is the ten grand I'm offering for the transfer."

"Monty won't be happy.  
Yarrow gave a derisive laugh. "What do you care? There were no guarantees about how long you'd let him have Chase. Besides I hear one-left is nice this time of year."

1-left was the wing of the prison used to house inmates that were causing trouble or just needed to be separated from the rest of the population. If Montrose made any trouble he'd be in there before he knew what hit him.

"You get me the money and you get your boy," Theriault conceded.

Yarrow stood with a smile and straightened his grey apparel. "I'll have it transferred tomorrow."

"He'll be in your cell before lockdown tomorrow then."

"That's perfect." Yarrow exited and began his walk back to 4-wing where he was housed. The guards that had brought him automatically fell into step behind the inmate. They knew of his connections and though not everyone agreed with the policy, bribes got him a lot of leeway in the prison. He strutted around as though he owned the old buildings and was just on a short vacation from his work. His work hadn't stopped upon his incarceration. Even from prison he commanded his forces, sending covert messages in his phone conversations and when his people came for visitation. For him this was just a change in location, a place to gather new contacts and connections. With Robert Chase within its walls, Trenton was now a place for Yarrow to bring down his greatest enemy and liability and put his most ambitious business plans into motion. And it was all thanks to the exploitable liability that was Montrose's son. Before he could strike, 'Junior' had ended his life unwittingly leaving Dr. Chase as the next best thing. Being easy on the eyes and ears was just a bonus.

H 

Nothing, nothing and more nothing, that was all he'd found. Seemingly endless hours of footage and nothing useful, except maybe that bit of tape with the married doctor from nephrology and a nurse. That might be useful at some later date, hence why that tape was being copied and kept. Other than that nothing of any use had been discovered. The tapes from May had indeed already been reused for more recent footage –cheap bastards. Honestly what good were security cameras if they didn't provide a decent alibi?

House flicked off a screen with far more force than necessary and glared at the ones that were still on. Small windows took him to various parts of the hospital. Mostly just areas heavily frequented by hospital visitors such as the lobby, clinic and a few corridors. There was one particularly useful camera. It wasn't monitoring a heavily travelled area but House imagined that the guys that usually worked in here (the ones he'd lured out with a false emergency in Peds) appreciated that particular camera more than the others.

With quick movements he stopped the set of VCRs that was copying the incriminating footage and removed them. One he filed back in the stack that it had come from. The other he held in his hand trying to figure out where he could hide it. When he got out of here he was going to complain to Cuddy. VHS was so last century and a DVD is much easier to conceal.

The door to the small security office clicked as the knob was turned from the other side. House had forgotten how dim the light was in this room until the door began to open and outside light flooded in.

"Hello, Jimmy. What brings you down here? No pretty ladies in this department and Warren and Earl don't seem your type." Warren and Earl were the two security guards he'd too easily tricked into leaving their post.

"There are no drugs hidden in here either so I guess both of us are out of place," Wilson responded without missing a beat. He didn't even bother asking how House knew it was him before he'd even opened the door all the way. "What are you doing in here that's so devastatingly important you called a Code Yellow in the Paediatric wing?"

"I'm surprised at you! I figured you'd be leading the search party. Nurses love heroes."

"I'll keep that in mind. The only problem with this particular scenario is that the hero would end up looking like an idiot when they finally figured out that there is no missing patient." Wilson crossed his arms looking unimpressed. "Honestly. Barbara Ali Adams."

"What?"

"Names of Steve McQueen's wives –that just has you written all over it."

House turned to give his friend a sidelong stare. "So, you going to 'rat' on me?"

"Eventually, yes. The staff is going nuts looking for this imaginary patient."

"I have a good reason."

"You could have just asked."

House blinked, not following. He hated when Wilson did that. "What?"

"I know it goes against everything you stand for," Wilson began with an obviously false air of understanding and commiseration, "but if you had been polite and just asked, they would have let you see the footage."

"Where's the fun in that?"

Wilson shook his head and reached to flick off a screen that, though on, wasn't displaying any picture. "And whatever it is you're stealing from here I don't want to know about it."

"You probably know him anyway. Don't you guys have a support group or something?" House got up and walked past Wilson who couldn't pick out the obscure reference to his extramarital affairs without knowing what was on the tape. House smiled at Wilson's confusion. That was more like it.

Dismissing the previous comment as House just being House, Wilson asked knowingly: "Didn't find anything, huh?" The older man glared back at him, then after a few more steps stopped walking. Wilson stopped next to him. "You see, there's that "asking" thing again."

"You've already searched the tapes."

Wilson nodded. "So has Cuddy. I think Cameron might have come down here too. If you had asked somebody you would have known that."

House stared at him for a few-second long stretch then abruptly walked away. Wilson paused before following, which required him to jog to catch up. House moved a lot faster these days.

"What do you expect to find? The smoking gun that will prove his innocence and set Chase free? Pardon my saying but that sounds a little idealistic –actually a lot idealistic for you."

"You're sounding a little pessimistic," the tallest of the pair countered. "That prison cheer rub-off on you?"

"House, this isn't one of your cases. You can't just keep digging looking for whatever lie it is tat holds the key to this. Leave it to the police. It's what they're paid for."

"Yeah, and they've done a bang up job so far." He jabbed the up button to call the elevator. When the lift didn't immediately arrive he hit the button several more times. "What the hell is Washington doing anyway? He's the one who should be getting Chase out of prison."

"If you bothered to check your messages you would have known that he's busy with filing motion and dealing with jury selection." After having so much difficulty with trying to get in touch with the diagnostician the defence lawyer had started calling Wilson who was always more amiable.

"At least that doesn't go back to that go back to that "asking" thing again." House turned to say then ducked into the elevator that had just arrived. Wilson followed.

"And Chase isn't his only client."

"Well I'm not going to go searching for alibis for them too."

"Yes, not everybody is lucky enough to have a boss as nosy as you."

House didn't like the tone. There was a subtle accent of hurt or offence in it. It wasn't overt enough to demand a response but it was blatant enough to dare one. That sourness was an accusing finger that was pointed at him so when Wilson exited the elevator House took the dare and followed him to the oncologist's office rather than going to his own. Walking away from whatever this was would put the blame of avoidance on him, or so social rules proclaimed.

"Are we going to have to do one of those talking things? They're getting really old." When Wilson didn't say anything House, frustrated, tried again. "What is it? I'm being nice, concerned. Isn't that what you wanted? I'm myself, you're pissed off. I change you're still pissed off."

Wilson didn't look up from the file he'd abruptly opened when he'd entered and told him "You haven't changed."

"My leg isn't my personality. Just because it doesn't hurt anymore, doesn't mean I'm suddenly going to find my inner Cameron. Grow up."

Wilson followed House's exit with his ears. When the door was closed and he was sure of his solitude he closed the file and sat back in his chair. He wasn't looking for anybody's inner Cameron. What was bothering him was that House had changed, become a little less wretched than he had been when his leg was paining him. What bothered him was that it was all directed at Chase. The man was falsely imprisoned and deserved the concern, Wilson didn't argue that. The conflict that he did wrestle with was the one posed by the prickly demeanour he still faced when he looked at his friend. Those resurfacing bits of old-Greg weren't for him. Now that he was free of any relationship, free from distractions and a little more honest with himself Wilson admitted that he wanted House's attention even as he outwardly walked away from it. Unfortunately he also wanted Chase, though that attraction was more physical and didn't carry with it the depth of his relation with House.

He wondered if House realized any of this or if, after years of nothing but cold and sarcastic brush-offs, he'd given up; only continuing the comments and jokes because it was familiar, accepted and expected. More and more, Wilson saw those jokes, those looks, and that spark of interest directed at the young blonde doctor that had arrived and shaken what had been stable, familiar and safe.

Wilson glanced out the window not really caring for the view as he considered how obtuse it was to worry over the loss of something he didn't even have.

H 

The rumour mill in the prison was surprisingly quick. Given how tight lipped inmates were about their own business they were exceedingly quick to talk about everyone else's. The hot topic today was the move scheduled for inmate Chase to inmate Yarrow's cell. Chase, being relatively new to the prison –even after almost a month and a half in its walls as he served "dead-time" while his trial was set up –was still a general topic of discussion. Fun to tease (especially when he talked back) and fun to look at, the kid had earned a name for himself due to all the fights he got in to and some that he even managed to win. There was still speculation that even though Chase was in Montrose's cell he wasn't actually "riding with" Monty. The favours and help that Montrose had given didn't seem to have been paid for by any sex acts. Nobody, it seemed had gotten a piece of that kid though many groups and individuals were subtly vying for the opportunity.

It was now expected that Yarrow would get Chase first. He wasn't known to have had very many partners in Trenton, unlike some who had a new one every week. Yarrow was very selective but when he found something he wanted he got it. The only person with the gall or the power to challenge him was Montrose.

Chase was in the yard and sat leaning against the outer wall of one of the prison's divisions that enclosed the open area for the inmates. He'd chosen this place because it seemed pretty neutral and Montrose and his group was nearby.

The yard was split into different areas, a basketball court, some bleachers, a paved area, a grassy area, and the space near the payphones. Different groups in the prison got different areas of the small yard. The basketball courts were for the black inmates who played non-stop once they were out. The bleachers were for the gang of white racists with their shaved heads and eerie tattoos. The paved stretch along the outside wall of the cell block was for those playing hand ball, mostly smaller gangs that had somehow banned together despite being mixes of different races. Montrose and his group were at the fence in the farthest corner of the yard from the entrance. According to what he'd heard that was a highly sought site and he and Yarrow had both fought for it a while ago with Montrose emerging victorious. At the other corner of the fence Yarrow stood around with his group. He cast numerous glances in Chase's direction the way he always did.

Chase usually spent his yard time alone, still unable to find his own place in any of the groups that wouldn't require selling himself. His best choice right now was to stay near Montrose, who was walking over to him with an expression on his face that made Chase nervous.

"Did anybody say anything to you?" Montrose asked. He stared down at Chase. With the sun at his back Chase had to squint to see him.

"No. Why?"

Montrose looked over his shoulder to where Yarrow was watching them through the crowd of his followers. "Because you're being moved to his cell."

Chase didn't react. Yarrow had never done anything to him. In fact his only interactions he'd ever had with Montrose's enemy was when he'd cut his hair and when the inmate had saved him from being raped in the shower room.

"Moved, huh? Why?" Chase asked.

"I don't know." Montrose crouched in front of Chase, the hard mask he usually wore slipping away to the open expression reserved only for brief moments with the young man he regarded as part of his family, the last connection to his deceased son. It was a connection he needed badly. "Yarrow hates me. He'll use you to get to me."

"Just a pawn," Chase mumbled too quietly for Montrose to hear.

Montrose had more to tell him. About Yarrow violently dominating the men he forced himself on, about how he shared them out to his friends in return for favours. About the broken men that left later if they were lucky or the ones found dead in the corner of a shower if they weren't.

"Has your lawyer been able to find anything to get you out of here?" Montrose wasn't expecting a positive answer so it was no surprise to him when Chase shook his head. Montrose suspected that Yarrow had something to do with Chase's incarceration. Days before Theriault had sent the picture circulating through the prison for his little auction Yarrow had begun taunting him with his son and his suicide. At that time Montrose had only responded in anger. It was only once he heard the name of the new inmate that was arriving that Montrose paid more attention to Yarrow's words. It was then that he heard the threat both to him and the young man he planned to use.

"What the hell is all this about?" Chase turned to glare at Montrose not caring about the man or his power or his problems. He was too tired to be careful and too angry to just let this go.

Montrose blew out a breath, his eyes shifting to a far part of the yard. He decided to tell Chase a little more, to prepare him a little for what might be coming. "I have some things he wants."

Chase raised his eyebrows, prompting the older man to go on.

"I'm getting out of it. I want some peace."

Montrose was ready to give up his part in the world of organized crime. It had cost him a lot. His freedom obviously, most devastatingly the relationship he'd had with his son. Chase could recall with disturbing clarity the expression on Zinedine's face when they had discussed his father. The combination of anger, shame and disappointment on his face was enough for Chase to drop the subject. From Montrose Chase found out that Zid had discovered his father's career as a money handler for an organized crime consortium when he was thirteen and nothing had been the same since then.

"He wants my connections. He thinks I'll give them up to protect you."

"Will you?"

"If I have to." There was no hesitation in his response. He knew well that giving Yarrow what he wanted would mean a lot of harm coming to a lot of people in both the near and distant future. He'd been part of this particular American culture long enough to know that for certain. He also knew that if it wasn't Yarrow, it would be somebody else and people would still get hurt. He'd grown a heart as he aged and it had broken when he'd lost his son. The only thing holding it together, the only connection he had left was through Chase and he would not sacrifice him for faceless individuals he couldn't care about in more than an abstract sense.

"I'll go to Theriault see what I can do to get this settled." He was also waiting on his people on the outside to get this figured out and find a way to get his current cellmate out of harms way. All they'd been able to give him so far was that they needed more time. Chase was swiftly running out of time.

"But you're not hopeful." Chase looked to the rest of the yard as he heard his cellmate sigh. "So I'm pretty much up a bloody creek without a paddle."

Montrose didn't have anything that would reassure him and Chase wasn't interested in empty words. He went back to his group. As he walked to them he glared at Yarrow who had watched from a distance the entire exchange.

H 

Chase's head turned to follow the corrections officer as he walked out of the small office. The door was metal and when it closed the click was accompanied by a heavy bang. The weight of the barrier was more than enough to secure it closed and lock the recent addition to the Trenton inmate population in the office of one of his most feared enemies.

"You want something to drink?" Theriault held out a can of soda to him. The bright swirls of the drink's logo inked across the aluminum surface was like a portal beckoning him to a different world and when he turned it down the absence of the bright pattern taunted him. The grey cold grey bleakness of the prison was once again uninterrupted. He closed his eyes with a silent and defeated sigh, thinking about how much he missed Wilson's tie.

Theriault laced his fingers and rested against the crowded surface of his small desk. The dark grey uniform covering his arms matched too well the dark colour of the old and cheap metal desk. "I'm sure you've heard."

With his head tilted forward Chase stared dully up at the other man giving him an expression of boredom and annoyance without putting any effort into it.

"Yarrow –he's pretty determined to have you. Unless you give me a reason not to authorize the transfer, he's going to get you."

Chase blinked.

Seeing that was all the response forthcoming Theriault sneered. "You may think you're tough but I've seen bigger stronger men than you break. So why don't you help yourself out and just tell me what it is that Yarrow wants with you –and Montrose too. He's not usually one to get so involved with inmates that can't do something for him. And even then it's a give and take sort of thing." Again, Chase chose silence as his answer. Theriault shrugged. "I guess it could just be your face. I'm sure you're quite popular with the ladies outside the prison." The CO sat back in his chair still eying the silent and stony face of his interest. "Popular with the men too, right?"

That comment produced something. A slight narrowing of the eyes was all, yet Theriault was a fairly observant man when he was looking in the right direction so the ephemeral spark of emotion was not missed.

"You have a boyfriend out there? Somebody waiting for you? Maybe searching tirelessly, exhausting all resources in a misguided bid to set you free." Theriault smiled at him. The flash of stained teeth, the pull on the shadowed jaw, and the glint of sadistic mirth said this was a story to which he already knew the ending.

Chase was saved from the disconcerting illustration on Theriault's face when the prison employee swivelled his chair around. He only turned about ninety degrees. Here he was able to keep watch of the inmate from the corner of his vision while he gazed out the small barred window. It was dark outside. Clouds had rolled in over the last few hours darkening the sky and promised rain. Most people weren't looking forward to it but Chase would have given a great deal to be out among those drops as they fell from heaven to earth.

"Bottom line, kid, is that you're stuck here. If you don't learn to work the situation in your favour, should you get outta here, whoever is waiting for you won't want the scraps of you that are left. You're going to be torn apart and nothing will put you back together." He'd heard stories and been witness to many more where inmates who were released couldn't go back to the living with the rest of the free population. They'd commit crimes because they had nothing and return to a place that had reluctantly become their element. Even convicts that made escape attempts often didn't get far. Disorganized and overwhelmed the majority were caught not terribly far from the prison from which they'd run. Most apprehensions were lacklustre and with little violence. Inmates didn't do well on the outside without the special courses given to them near the end of their sentences. Even then the rate for repeat offence was high.

Theriault expected that if Robert Chase did leave Trenton he'd be more broken than most. No part of him truly cared. Many years at this job had exhausted his small supply of sympathy.

"Help yourself out, Robert," Theriault reiterated. "I can help you if you help me."

"No, thanks. I like my soul where it is. I'm not selling it today."

Theriault smirked. He called the guards to take him back to his cell, calling after him that he'd finalize the move tomorrow.

H 

They weren't entitled to his feelings, so he didn't share them. He made his jokes. He stubbornly bore the brunt of Cameron's, Foreman's, and to an extent, Wilson's frustration. He watched as moments of worry and contemplation interrupted their days. Never did he succumb to the notion that his feelings were less valid, or less honest just because no one knew them. Cameron's outright and at times almost suffocating distress didn't make her more sincere than him. It just made her more obvious. Looking like he didn't care and actually not caring were too different things and he wished they would shut up about it.

His frustration was taken out on the keys of his piano. Not with loud violent scores of music as one might expect. It was actually the music of Brahms _Pieces for Piano, Op. 118_ that drew his fancy that night. The music had its ups and down in both volume and complexity, and the long patterns of notes and chords filled his mind with music leaving little room for the annoyances which plagued him. He let the music take over, letting go of the shields he held so strongly during the day.

All he had was the melody and the harmony –controlled by his hand, brought to life by his touch, dying in a whisper at his whim. It was a romantic piece written by and now played by a difficult individual. They say Johannes wrote it in 1893 for Clara Schumann. Today, House played it for himself and for the composer who, like him, had been disagreeable with those around him. Perhaps Carla had seen more than that. It didn't really matter. What mattered was the majesty of sound filling his home and his being, and the person for whom he played that could not hear it.

H 

Two days later Chase was settling uneasily into his new accommodation in Yarrow's cell just across and up from his old one, his safe one. Chase stared down to the small haven and waved weakly at Montrose who stared back up. From behind him Chase felt a warm presence approach. Yarrow followed Chase's gaze and smirked. He could almost imagine Montrose's angry face, the narrowing eyes.

"What are you lookin' at?"

Chase looked elsewhere. "Nothing."

Yarrow's arms slipped around Chase to rest on the bars, enclosing him in an even smaller cage. He pressed himself a little closer to Chase who in turn pressed a little closer to the bars. There was no escape. With the bars locked shut it was just him and Yarrow. The warmth receded and Chase breathed a haggard sigh of relief. It seemed he was safe for now, though he wasn't sure how long that would last. Yarrow seemed to ooze an oppressive sexual tension. It was a completely different aura than the one he'd exuded when he'd saved the doctor from those brutes that had been pulling the clothes off him in the shower facility. Somewhere under that helpful exterior had lain this calculating beast. Chase sighed mumbling to himself: "I like technicolor," because here true colours were always so ugly.

To be honest he hadn't been expecting Yarrow to be like this in close quarters. Montrose had warned him, sparing no words in describing the horror of what had happened to Yarrow's previous cellmates. Now trapped, with the warnings turning out to be accurate, Chase expected to meet the same fate.

He'd dodged what seemed was the inevitable for well over a month with the help of Montrose and his people. Now his time was up. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the bars.

"You just going to stand there?"

Chase turned around and found to his surprise that Yarrow was on his own bunk, the upper one, reading a book. Not willing to engage him in a conversation should he change his mind, Chase sat tensely on his bunk. Eventually the lights in the block were turned off leaving the cells in relative darkness. Yarrow tossed his book away. Chase listened as the man above him shifted to find a comfortable position on the thin mattress of the old bed. The silence in the cell only made it easier to hear the taunts coming from the other cells. The catcalls, crudest he'd ever heard, floated around the old and dreary building seeming to carry with them the echoes of all the other criminals turned victims of the prison.

Chase covered his ears with his hands trying to block out the sound of the water dripping from the faucet to the metal basin bolted to the back wall. Each drop ticked off another number in the countdown in Chase's head. It was a countdown that he couldn't say for sure when would reach zero. He could only torture himself with the uncertainty of what was in store for him next.

H 

House saw her coming from down the hall. Wishing that he could become invisible he ducked into his office knowing full well that she'd barge in and start asking questions to which he didn't have any good answers. Her big brown eyes would stare up at him in hope, while her hands wrung with uncertainty. If he gave her good news her body would tense as she fought the urge to hug him. Bad news and she'd drain, shoulders drooping, eyes sad, bottom lip with just a little bit of a pout. That he knew this, and he knew for certain this would happen –Cameron was just that predictable –seemed a clear counter to his proclamations of having no interest in her. It wasn't. He was just observant like that.

He watched her walk in. He must have watched a little too closely because his scrutiny had her pausing in confusion. House turned to his desk and picked up the first thing he could find: a pen -useless. He dropped it and dug around for his yo-yo.

"Did you see him? Is he okay?" she asked. He didn't even need to look at her to confirm his prediction. He could hear the hope in her voice. For the past week none of them had been able to see Chase. When they got to the prison they were informed he was unable to see anybody but not given any details. This last time had been House's turn and when he got there he was informed that inmate Chase was no longer taking visitations.

"Nope." He didn't soften the blow. If anything his nonchalance only made it worse. "He's still not seeing any visitors. I guess he's busy." His tone seemed to indicate that he thought Chase was busy 'entertaining' the other inmates. He hadn't meant for it to come out like that. Before he could rephrase, intone differently, the yo-yo was knocked out of his hand, sent to crash into the glass door to the balcony.

"This isn't a joke, House!"

House blinked wide eyes at her. He couldn't recall a time when she'd confronted him like this. Usually her bursts of anger were fleeting. Sure she could hold a grudge with the best of them and when it came to telling him he was a horrible human being she was top notch. But anger, sustained anger with a direct confrontation combo, that was new and he had no doubt that two years ago, before they'd ever met, she never would have done this. Good.

"That wasn't a joke. Believe me you'll know when I'm making a joke." He gestured to the yo-yo by the glass. "You mind. I don't bend as well as I used to."

"You really don't care do you?"

"I went to see him! What more do you want? You want me to bust him out?"

"I can't believe you! I don't know how exactly but I know it's your fault he's in there!"

House took half a step forward to tower over her. She craned her head back to stare up at him but to his surprise she didn't back down. "How is this my fault? I didn't put him in prison."

"That email! I read it. I'm the one to printed it out for you."

"What? You're jealous because you thought they would try to hurt you, thus proving that I care about you? Sorry to disappoint." He marched to his desk, his limp more pronounce now than it had been recently. Cameron shook her head fighting back her own fiery and conflicted emotions as House's traitorous body showed physically what he wouldn't show in on his face. He did care just not about her. A small part of her, hidden away from the man she in some ways respected and admired, and in other ways despised, crumbled at the realization.

The futility of her longing stoked the anger. She spoke wanting to hurt him, to prove that he wasn't invulnerable, that he was still human and that emotions mattered, people mattered. Who better to use than the one person that had mattered to him the most.

"No wonder Stacy left you."

The angle at which he stood gave her only a glancing view of his face. Even so she saw his shadowed jaw clench, the cold eyes still and she wasn't sorry.

"Get out." The low clipped order was followed after a few seconds of defiance.

Several more seconds passed before House sat down on the corner of his desk too achy and weary to even make it the few feet to his chair. His leg was tired and the rest of him was even more so. Cuddy had continued in her attempts to get him into rehab to strengthen his leg and make the return of his pain less likely. He continued to resist. A small, clearly crazy part of his mind wanted his pain back. What was more human than pain? What was more basic to the human condition than pain you caused yourself?

It had been a buffer for him. A reason to be the way he was. Now with it gone and his Vicodin habit slowly going the way of the do-do, he was exposed to everything he'd learnt so well to ignore and deem irrelevant. Now all those things were sneaking in; the rest of his life, what he'd ignored for so long. Without the haze of pain, without the high of Vicodin he looked around and found himself alone. That wasn't new but it wasn't fun either. His resignation to be alone and in pain had gone –if one wasn't permanent than the other didn't have to be either.

Outwardly all this left him the same as he was before, except that his walk looked nicer. Inwardly, well he was still the same. It was the world that was different. If his misery wasn't because of his pain, as it was in his old world, then it was just because of who he is. And if it's because of who he is then he'd be as alone now as he was before. The misunderstood, in constant pain, genius-doctor was now just a chump that couldn't find what even the slowest of people had found for themselves.

He was as terrible as everyone thought, and he had nobody to blame but himself.

It really was no wonder Stacy left him.

Being a broken and tortured soul only lasted for so long it seemed. Even Cameron seemed to like him less now that he didn't fit the label she'd given him. The problem was that it's easy to like the label you slap on someone. It's never as easy to like the person behind it.

House, after several silent minutes moved to his chair. He picked up the phone to call around about one of the few people who looked at him, looked past the label and just smiled and shrugged while gnawing on a pen, as though he was no better or worse a person than any of the others he'd met before. House had to wonder what type of people Chase had met before. He didn't want to think about what type of people he was meeting now.

H 

Robert was getting up close and personal with his cellmate. After more than two weeks of being under Yarrow's thumb, forced to stay near him at all times, not being allowed to visit with those who came to see him other than his lawyer, he was edgy, mercurial, and so scared sometimes all he could do was stare blankly at whatever was in front of him and imagine being somewhere else. Montrose had been right. Yarrow dominates and suffocates his prey in his presence and isolates them from whatever friends they had. He hadn't seen Montrose from any closer than a distance since he'd been moved from his cell. When Yarrow wasn't around his thugs were, enforcing the rules their leader had made.

He'd been spending a lot more time in the infirmary too. Yarrow had forbade him to go to visitation. The first week Chase had glared and defied him. The next day he saw Foreman one last time and that had been it. Yarrow had punished him for the defiance and he'd been aching for days after that act. On Wednesday, one of the three days his section was allotted for visitation, Yarrow's own men had accosted Chase on his way to lunch and he'd spent visitation in the infirmary. This pattern held for more than a week, Chase being pummelled so badly that he couldn't see anyone. A standing order that he wasn't seeing anyone was put on his record. Chase hadn't made the order but he knew better than to contest it. Yarrow had Theriault and who knows how many other corrections officers in his pocket.

Now that Chase was being obedient Yarrow decided that this was the day. When the bars slid closed for evening lockdown Yarrow had tied a sheet to the corners, a makeshift curtain giving privacy for what was to come.

Across the deep atrium inmates watched with sick curiosity hoping to catch a glimpse. Next to Yarrow's cell the inmates listened. Considering his looks it was a shock that Chase had even managed to make it the almost two months that he had without a sexual assault that led to rape. 'The better you looked the faster they get to you' was the general trend of the prison. Chase shouldn't have lasted more than a few days but it had finally come around. Initiation as Theriault liked to call it. From the looks of it though, Chase was not going without a fight.

There was a struggle or something going on behind the white curtain. Only the neighbouring cells were close enough for the sounds of the fight to be heard. The muffled cry of the younger man in the cell resulted in taunts and advice for Yarrow yelled from the convicts.

A resounding crack transmitted through the shared wall of Yarrow's and a neighbouring cell had the inmates next door looking at each other with barely suppressed smiles. The noise next door settled down. The cons waited for something, anything that would give them a clue as to what was occurring right then.

On the other side to the flimsy white partition Chase struggled to co-ordinated his limbs. Yarrow had just slammed his head against the brick and it was only due to his panic that Chase didn't surrender to the darkness he could feel encroaching on his senses. Sluggishly his mind diagnosed him with a concussion. The arm pressing on his chest with the weight of the taller man behind it didn't help at all. Just a few inches from Chase's face a piece of metal, sharpened along one edge and wrapped with strips of fabric to make a hilt was grasped in Yarrow's hand. His other hand was busy divesting his cellmate of the torn remains of his grey trousers.

"Don't worry this won't hurt a bit," Yarrow told his dazed companion. "It'll hurt a lot."

Chase flailed, his mind unable to mount a proper defence. Panicked as he was anything would have done. He heard Yarrow curse as a blow landed in his midsection. The crude blade, flashed across Chase's vision and he grabbed for it. The uneven edge cut in to his fingers wetting the weapon with his blood. The stinging pain pulled him a little further from his haze, enough for him to knee Yarrow in his abdomen. The knife was suddenly in his possession.

Yarrow stumbled back a few steps. His eyes were wide with shock, which quickly turned to rage. His lessons in breaking down his cellmate had not taken as well as he'd thought. He hadn't expected Chase to just roll over either but this all out battle, the core beneath the surface of desolation that he thought he'd pierced was still holding strong. Kids these days were so fucking stubborn.

Chase fumbled with the knife. His shaking and bloody hands tried and failed numerous times in get a good hold that didn't aggravate the lacerations on his fingers and palms. He glanced up in time to see a shift in the man's eyes, pain and shock receding and awareness and thought returned with a vengeance similar to the flow of expression after the cessation of a seizure. Chase grasped the hilt with both hands. His grip wasn't sure and even like when he held a scalpel over a patient. Here the only vague thought was for defence, no complicated steps and reminders filtering through his mind as he pressed the sharp cold metal into warm flesh. Substance was lacking behind the instinct but for now instinct was overpowering and was enough.

Yarrow lunged at him, hands wrapping around the pale neck and squeezing. His body followed pinning the smaller man to the wall. At the same time a searing pain erupted from his midsection. He did he best to ignore it and squeezed. His hands tightened and he watched the attractive face of his latest target struggle for breath. Soon, though, his hands became slack and realization dawn.

Robert slid to the floor gasping to breathe and trying to pay attention through the ache in his lungs and the pounding of his head. Yarrow staggered around until finally he fell not far from his intended victim. The older prisoner moved his hands away from his burning stomach. They were soaked with blood. Shocked eyes stared down at the hilt of his own weapon sticking out of him, forced there by his careless assault on his armed cellmate. All Chase had done was hold the weapon and Yarrow had impaled himself.

The inmate's laboured breathing rhythmically moved the unnatural protrusion a few millimetres back and forth with each unsteady cycle. Each motion released another fall of dark red liquid. He tried to pull it out but his weak hands were batted away by trembling ones.

The blonde head bent over the wound and Chase packed Yarrow's discarded shirt around the handle standing in his gut. Yarrow's eyes clenched shut as pressure was applied. "Hold." The order was weak, still Yarrow did. This kid was a doctor in the outside world after all. That was his last thought before unconsciousness cradled him in its unfeeling embrace.

Rob crawled away from the limp body towards the barred entrance of the cell. He needed to get help both for him and Yarrow. He'd considered just leaving the man to bleed out. With a concussion he would last longer than his cellmate. He quickly discovered he couldn't. He wasn't an animal and he wasn't a killer no matter what the cops and the D.A. said.

His vision was rapidly darkening to a tunnel, all peripheral gone due to his head injury. It would only be a matter of time before he too was out cold. He made it to the bars and pulled on the sheet hoping to take it down. It did give a little under the load but didn't fall.

"Help," he called. With so little breath it was only a whisper. Finally, the wave of darkness broke over him and pulled him away. He collapsed before the bars, one arm through them and resting listlessly on the catwalk of the tier.

Inmates across the way went back to their bunks. It wasn't a great distance between them and the other side so they could see the blood on the pale arm. Decent people would have called for help. Prison people didn't want to get involved. Montrose couldn't help, locked away in a solitary cell in 1-left thanks to Yarrow's goons. He could only pace and worry and rage to himself for what he thought knew was happening to Chase.

It would be twenty minutes before the CO making the rounds on the second tier noticed a bloodstained arm on the walkway above.

H 

**End Chapter 9**

Sagga…


	11. Chapter 10

Warning(s): Violence, language, sexual assault

**Chapter 10**

Tim Washington waited for Dr. House to pick up his phone. For a guy who wanted to be kept informed he was very difficult to get a hold of. Eventually the ringing stopped as the other end of the line was picked up.

"This is House."

The voice sounded a little strange but Washington chalked that up to a poor connection. "Doctor House, this is Mr. Washington, Doctor Chase's attorn-"

"No kidding you don't say," House interrupted.

Washington rubbed his forehead wondering what House was playing at this time. "Look Doctor Chase is-"

"I'm sorry to interrupt but it's more than likely that I don't care and you're wasting your breath. See I'm actually away from my office right now, so you can leave a message, just don't expect a response. If it's really important you can call my gopher, Wilson." A short beep followed.

Washington raised his eyes to the overcast sky and shook his head. This man was unbelievable. "I'm calling Wilson." He said into the phone. He snapped his phone closed then opened it again to call the oncologist House had introduced to him. He was a far more bearable person than House and much of the correspondence went through him since he actually checked his messages.

"Doctor Wilson, Oncology," came the introduction after only a ring and a half.

"Doctor Wilson this is Chase's attorney, Mr. Washington."

"Oh, hi!" The voice on the other side perked up. "Any good news." Washington's sigh was answer enough. "I'll take that as a no."

The caramel skinned man leaned against the hood of his car, checking first to make sure that no dirt would rub onto his suit. "I just left the hospital, Chase is stable but he left me a message that I can't understand."

"Wait! Stable? What happened to him?"

"Oh, sorry." Wilson and the others didn't know about this latest development. "He was injured in a fight with his cellmate. He sustained a pretty severe concussion but they expect him to make a full recovery. And his cellmate too." He spoke quickly to assure Dr. Wilson. He wished he knew more of the medical terms Chase's physician had used but he'd never been good with doc-speak. It was why he'd given up on personal injury cases and gone to criminal ones.

"What's the name of his doctor?"

"Millbury." Washington assumed Wilson would call for the details. "Apparently Chase wrote me a message when he was still conscious. The hand writings a little shaky, so I'm not sure if I'm reading this right."

"What does it say?"

Washington mouthed the word to himself a few times trying to get the cadence to sound like something familiar. He shrugged. "Trickogram? Triclogram?"

"Trichogram," Wilson interrupted the other man's third erroneous attempt.

"That could be it. And below it says "chem." Do you know what it is?"

Wilson sat back in his chair abandoning his charts for a problem that he hoped would have a better outcome than that of many of his patients. "A trichogram is a hair analysis."

"Do you know why he'd want one?"

Wilson was silent for a few seconds. His free hand curled into a loose fist to rest against his chin. His thumb rubbed lightly back and forth over his bottom lip as he tried to understand what Chase was trying to say. "The evidence that put him in jail, they were hairs right?"

"Yes, blond ones found on the victim's clothing. I sent Doctor House a copy of the DNA comparison. It matched."

Wilson was quiet again. "I've got to find House. I'll call you back." The line went dead.

Washington sighed. He unlocked his Mercedes Benz and settled into the driver's seat. After one glance up at St. Francis hospital he started the car's engine, the soothing whine dropping into a low rumble that exuded to anyone listening that the technology of this engine was worth the one hundred and fifty grand paid for it. He drove away heading back to Princeton and waiting patiently for the return call from Wilson that would tell him why Chase wanted his hair examined.

H 

Wilson burst into the MRI control room.

"Miss me already?" House asked, not taking his eyes from patient that was currently dying from unknown causes. At the controls sat Cameron and standing off to the side was Foreman.

Wilson ignored House question and asked his own. "Would MMH show up in a hair chemical analysis?"

All three heads turned to stare at the head of oncology.

"Somebody else has been poisoned?" Foreman asked glancing at House and wondering if those people were still out there trying to kill him.

"No. Chase…" Actually he didn't want to distract them with what had happened to Chase. He'd tell them after they figured this out. "Would it show up?"

House was silently giving Wilson a strange look so Cameron answered. "It's possible. And the poison did affect his liver. Some studies have shown that caffeine levels in hair rise slightly when the liver is failing."

"The morphology would also change. Dystrophic hair looks different," Foreman added.

"You forgot colour." House glanced at his employees. "The B -six we gave him to counter the methylhydrazine caused hyper-pigmentation of his hair. I won two hundred dollars in a bet that Chase dyed his hair."

Cameron looked up at her boss. "Chase doesn't dye his hair,"

"I guess you would know. But Cortez in admitting doesn't."

"Why did you want to know about MMH?" Foreman asked Wilson.

"Because if it shows up in the hair found on the two people Chase was accused of killing it would prove that the hair was planted after the fact," House explained for the benefit of those who hadn't caught up yet. "Clever."

"You can say that to Chase when he gets out. It was his idea." Wilson didn't wait around. He exited almost as quickly as he'd come in. Cameron and Foreman glanced at each other.

"You two finish this. Page me if you find something interesting." House followed the path Wilson had taken and caught up with him. "So he finally decided to come out of hiding," House commented as he walked next to Wilson.

Suddenly Wilson was no longer next to him. He'd stopped walking. "He's in a hospital, unconscious with a severe concussion," Wilson finally divulged whilst glaring at his friend. When House opened his mouth to say something Wilson quickly spoke first. "I don't want to hear it. I have to call Washington." He continued to the elevator. House followed.

Wilson had to wait several seconds for an elevator giving House ample time to catch up with him. The taller man stood next to him, staring forward. When the doors open revealing the empty elevator car they both embarked. Wilson pressed for the third floor.

"I was just going to say," House began when the lift started moving, "that we need to get a hair sample from Chase now and one from before he was poisoned."

Wilson's eyes slid over to him. "We?"

"Yes, we," House said tersely not wanting to have to explain himself. He was actually feeling pretty, well, not-so-smart. Chase had figured out that that evidence used to incarcerate him might also be able to set him free. That seemed like more of a House-type of epiphany.

"Most people don't keep hair around from three months ago." Wilson avoided the touchy subject of House's participation in the Free-Chase effort and instead focussed on the problem. They both stepped out when the doors opened to the third floor.

"Almost two months he's been in Trenton. Before that he was recovering from the poison. We find out what gym he belongs to, find his locker, find his comb. There's no way he was going to the gym to torture himself on the treadmill the way he usually does when he was feeling like crap."

"How do you know he goes to a gym?" Wilson asked.

House huffed in derision. "He can't not go to the gym and look like that. Have you seen those legs?" House practically yelled the last sentence.

Wilson was about to ask him if there was a history of Turret's in the family when he noticed Cuddy approaching. She was wearing a skirt and her legs did look quite nice even if they hadn't been talking about her. "I swear we weren't talking about you," House said to the hospital administrator.

"House, why is Chase still being paid? I told you to file the papers putting him on leave."

"Oh, yeah! The papers. Well you see-"

The curly-haired brunette raised a hand stalling his explanation. "I don't want to hear it! Fill out the forms and give them to accounting! And get your patient out of the MRI. How many scans does she need?" She walked between them and away not believing for a solitary moment that all four MRI's the woman had were necessary. Those scans weren't free.

H 

"Tabitha Grant?"

The woman looked to the office door where the tall man stood. "Yes," she responded cautiously.

"I'm detective Drew Freedman." He flashed his gold shield. "I have a warrant to see a will."

H 

Robert Chase contemplated the consequences of his actions. He'd spent several days in the hospital for observation then he was brought back to the max security prison and he'd spent a two weeks in 1-left. 'The hole' as most inmates refer to it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd been expecting. He had a small room to himself, his meals were delivered to him and most importantly he was safe. Release from 1-left into the general population was for most something to look forward to, a return of the few freedoms they had. For Chase it meant going back to where this had begun.

Yarrow had recovered from his injury and been brought back to his cell with only a day-long stay in 1-left. He hadn't pressed charges, not that Chase thought he'd really done anything wrong. He'd defended himself. Still, no charges meant Yarrow planned to take his own revenge.

A corrections officer walked Chase to the main doors of 4-Wing. As soon as he walked in all heads turned to him. Taking care to avoid looking directly at the many eyes on him Chase took the stairs to the second level hoping to see Montrose. His path was blocked by two inmates, one black one white. Chase recognized them as part of Yarrow's gang and knew that they were his escorts. He cast a look to Montrose's cell and wondered briefly where the man was. With his escorts Chase climbed the stairs to the third level. There seemed to be crowd of people in front of his cell. He could list the name of all them and their roles in Yarrows criminal army. He'd picked up quite a bit of information from his tailing of Yarrow, probably more than Yarrow wanted him to know. None of that was going to help him now.

The group cleared as Chase stood before the cell. Inside Yarrow sat on the lower bunk smirking at him. He stood and made a vague gesture to somebody outside the cell to Chase's right. "This old place just isn't the same without your pretty face," Yarrow said with a shake of his head. Murmurs of agreement floated through the air. "I thought I'd welcome you back in a special way." A snap of his fingers and Chase's arms were suddenly grabbed and held behind him. "Don't struggle. We wouldn't want a repeat of last time would we? I still have a memento of that encounter." Yarrow raised the front of his shirt to show the scar left by the homemade knife.

"You heal fast for a man your age," Chase jibed.

Yarrow glared and with slight motion of his head, Vin, the man behind him, and Yarrow's most trusted henchman, forced the younger man into the cell. When he was within reach Yarrow ran a hand down Chase's side, his eyes half closed in an anticipatory lust. Montrose had tried to talk to him, to talk him out of what he planned to do. He'd offered what Yarrow had initially wanted but the scheming convict had figured out a way to get what he wanted and do what he wanted. Montrose had changed his will. That little bit of foresight made Montrose expendable and Chase even more vulnerable. Montrose probably thought he was doing the opposite. Poor bastard.

"I think Vin and I can get it right this time," said Yarrow, his thumb stroking across he handsome man's jaw.

Chase spit in his face.

In return Yarrow punched him twice, face then stomach. Only the large man behind him kept Chase from toppling over. While Chase tried to recover from the blows Yarrow walked past. He put the sheet across the cell bars.

H 

It'd taken three weeks to get the results from the hair analysis back. In order to maintain the chain of custody Washington had filed a motion through the courts for more tests. With the suspicion of evidence tampering the judge had ordered that another set of detectives to go through Chase's locker at his gym to get his comb.

There were three hairs in total "found" on the victims. With the DNA testing done on one, two were left for comparison. They'd also taken hair from Chase while he was in the hospital giving three sets for comparison. The tests were a little time consuming, since they had to be done very carefully. What caused the delay though was the backlog in the labs. This wasn't like television there was one lab dedicated to each case or each set of detectives. They all had to share and the hair comparison was given low priority. Wilson and Washington barely managed to keep House from making harassing phone calls in an attempt to bully the technicians into getting the job done faster.

Once she heard about what was going on Cuddy offered to get the tests done at PPTH. Being a teaching hospital they had access to numerous testing apparatus. A hair test wasn't that complicated. Washington however knew it was better to wait. It may mean that Chase was in prison for longer than necessary but it also meant that the findings, should they come out in their favour, which everyone was sure would happen, could not be contested. PPTH as Chase's workplace was not impartial.

So they waited a grand total of twenty-three days for the results to come back. When they did Judge Callister had no choice but to dismiss the charges. The detectives originally on the case, Morrison and Freedman were raked over the coals by the DA, their chief in the station and the Internal Affairs Bureau. They both professed their innocence and it fell on deaf ears. Now they knew how Chase felt. Morrison was in shock that his career as a detective, his short career, was going to have a huge ugly mark on it. Freedman just raged. He went to ADA Spencer, the prosecutor, and urged the man to keep their suspect in jail for just a little longer so that he could fix this mess. Spencer, who'd been looking forward to giving some closure to the now angry and tired Islington family reluctantly agreed.

"It's just a filing error," he said to himself as he "lost" the release form in a stack of papers.

H 

"Where the hell is he?" House yelled into the phone. On the other side of the glass wall Cameron and Foreman watched as House tore into Washington. It'd been five days since the evidence exonerating Chase came back from the lab and the case dismissed.

"File a writ of habeus corpus or something and get him out!" The phone slammed down and House crashed into this chair. He drew his hands down his face, looking up at the ceiling and letting his vision blur as his bottom eyelids were pulled down for a short second. This nightmare should have been over. Chase was supposed to be out and okay. God, three months in a maximum security prison with a face like Chase's was…was cruel and inhuman. Wasn't there something against that in the Charter of Rights? Leaving him in there when he was innocent and they knew it, wasn't only a gross miscarriage of justice –like the whole process that got him in there in the first place –but a big, fat, juicy, sue-able mistake. When Chase did get out House would get Washington to file suit for wrongful arrest. The city would settle and Chase's money problems, wherever they stemmed from, would be taken care of.

First, though, Chase needed to get out.

"Would you please take him somewhere?" Foreman demanded more than asked of the oncologist next door. "He's going nuts, or more nuts than usual."

Wilson was standing by the glass window to his balcony looking out at the sky counting the hours until Chase was free again. Alive and whole he hoped.

"I've already tried to talk to him, tried to take him to a bar, tried food."

"Have you tried a hooker?"

Wilson looked at Foreman trying to determine if the neurologist was serious. The wide eyes and expression said that yes, he was. And Wilson sighed. "I tried a hooker too. Nothing works. He's inconsolable." Wilson felt that House was closed off, to him, his best and pretty much only friend. Why wasn't he worthy enough of House's true emotions? How come all he got was the façade of infuriating indifference or, more recently, extreme irritation?

"So, wait. For the first time that I can recall House is feeling bad about something?" Foreman asked in disbelief. "Feeling bad about Chase being in jail? He's been there for three months. House only stopped making jokes two days ago."

"He's complicated," Wilson shrugged.

"That's not an excuse! Complicated is for tortured heroes of romance novels!"

"You read romance novels?"

"House is just a jerk! There's nothing complicated about that."

"He feels guilty about Chase's incarceration," Wilson huffed. "There was an email. A threat to him…and to Chase."

Foreman was going to say something but he paused, his mouth hanging open. He hadn't heard anything about a letter.

"I gave it to the cops a few weeks ago. They traced the IP address to Trenton Prison. They couldn't identify the specific sender." Wilson moved away from the window to his desk. "There are too many cons and not enough security. We did find out about somebody in the prison though. Y'know the guy who shot House?"

"He's there?" Foreman couldn't believe this. First House is shot. Then Chase drinks the poison meant for House (the assailants of that episode were still free). Then Chase is framed for a crime he didn't commit in what might have been an attempt to hurt House. It would have been unbelievable if it weren't right in front of his face.

Wilson nodded. "He's there."

Moriarty had been pretty adamant in his resolution that House should suffer. Trying to get him through Chase however was a plan that Foreman wasn't sure was the best way to go. House seemed to like Chase in his own strange way. Then again everyone seemed to like Chase. Whether with patients, or their families, or with other doctors, Chase didn't even have to try and he got the respect and positive reviews that Foreman said he didn't care about.

So what was it about House and Chase, Chase and House? Out of all of them Foreman thought he was the most like House. Cameron was too soft and Chase was just…too Chase. His easygoing, laidback style seemed to work well for him. It got him through med school, which any medical student will tell you is, mostly full of type-A over-achievers. He wasn't sure what Chase's GPA was or whether they even used GPA's in Australia but if he got a fellowship with House it must have been pretty good. Chase had been in PPTH the longest. Maybe it was a seniority thing. He shrugged to himself drawing a contemplative look from Wilson who wasn't anywhere aboard his errant train of thought. Somehow Chase and House just clicked despite their differences.

"This is a God-damn mess."

Wilson agreed. "No kidding."

H 

Even to his own ears his breathing was loud and raspy. Each one also came with a stab of pain in chest and Chase had to wonder where there were any cracked ribs along with the other tokens his assailants had left. Wasn't it enough that they debased him? Why did they have to leave lasting marks of the encounters? His right hand was already slippery with his own blood, which seeped out of a fairly shallow wound on the lower left side of his abdomen. Shallow though it might be, that didn't stop it from stinging, quite violently when his steps faltered and the flesh around the wound was tugged one way or another.

His left arm hung limply at his side in contact with the wall as he used the sturdy divider to aid his trek back to his cell. Not that it was the bet of places to be, since his cellmate Yarrow wouldn't be any help to him, but it had to be better than where he was at the back of the recreation area behind several bookshelves, having been dragged there when he was accosted. He'd recognised their faces. They were Yarrow's pal and though he knew fighting back would only make the assault worse and anger his keeper, his mind wouldn't allow him to just accept it. Trenton was well on its way to taking everything it had from him. He'd be damned if he'd let it take his sanity too.

He stumbled as the wall he'd been using to support himself ended abruptly, spilling him in to the intersecting corridor. That sharp pain came back and he bit back a groan reopening the laceration on his bottom lip that he'd made as they held him down during the assault. He closed his eyes and curled up, unable to lift himself as the fresh memories replayed.

The hands, the mouths, the touches, he could still feel the tainted patches of skin, the scraps of his soul they'd sullied. Soon he was shivering, the tremors creating a constant sting of background pain that eventually brought him back to the present and the lasting stains they'd left on him. He could taste them in his mouth and he gagged. The vomit came so quickly and so fiercely it arched his back and barely gave him enough time to sit up so that he wasn't lying in the pool that quickly formed.

His breathing hitched, adding violent punctuations to his already quaking form. God, he felt pitiful.

"Kid, come on."

Someone was tugging on his arm trying to get him to stand. He didn't know who it was but it wasn't Montrose and he was the only person in this facility that he could trust.

"No…no…" his weak protest was ignored. He felt fingers probe gently the area around his injury, a threat that had been carried through as a result of his disobedience. He tried to shrink back.

"S'okay, kid."

Chase felt his right arm lifted over a pair of strong shoulders and then he was standing, more under the power of the other man than his own. His injury pulled and his left hand immediately went to it.

"Come on. We don't have to go far."

Chase managed to get one foot in front of the other, aiding in the journey to whatever destination the other man had in mind. Suddenly the atmosphere changed. The oppression and menace of the prison receded. He could still feel its presence but it was further away, held at bay by some force. Then he was lying down, hard wood underneath him, quickly being warmed by his shaking body.

"You'll be okay."

Chase felt a hand on his forehead and opened his eyes as the voice filtered through and brought with it recollection. The man had a bit of a beard and his hair was a little longer and shaggier, though he imagine the bald spot was as bare as ever. Other than that he looked the same as he did the one and only day Chase had ever seen him.

"You shot my boss," he declared weakly.

Moriarty nodded. "Yeah. I'm not sorry about that." He sighed and looked up and down the injured form of the young man. "I am sorry about this." He shook his head at some guilty thought and couldn't hold his tongue as more spilled out. It was this place. It had to be. It compelled confession. "I…I was…blinded by anger. I shouldn't have brought you into this. It wasn't supposed to be about you. I didn't think….I didn't know…" but he should have. He should have known that Yarrow was up to something and that his interest in Dr. Chase could only lead to something bad. He didn't know what else to say except, "I'm sorry."

The younger man only looked at him with vacant eyes and that probably did more to feed his guilt than any scathing or angry comment ever could. At this moment Moriarty knew he was no better than the physician he so despised. Like him he'd acted with no regard for other people, he'd used someone as a tool for his revenge, and now that someone had been devastatingly and irreversibly hurt because of it. He had to get away. Chase barely noticed that he was now alone. All he could do was lay there, silent and in the company of a detached sort of peace.

He took one more calming breath and closed his eyes. Above him, trapped in a pattern of stained glass, an image of a man watched over one lost from the flock.

H 

Four days later Chase was suddenly free. Corrections Officers came by his cell and took him out. It wasn't until he was in the holding area that they told him he was being released. A bad joke, that's what he'd thought it was. They gave him back the clothes he'd been wearing the day they brought him there and his messenger bag. After three months he barely recognized the knick-knacks that had gathered in the bottom.

A hop on a prison bus and a short ride to the city centre and that was all there was. He was free. No fanfare and no warning. Yarrow had looked pretty pissed when the CO's had come to get him. Maybe he'd had an idea what was going on. Yet even at the memory of that Chase couldn't find a smile.

The bus pulled away kicking up a small cloud of dust behind it. He glanced around to the other cons, ex-cons that were being greeted by family and friends. Men who'd served their time and were now ready to get on with their lives or go back to crime. Rob stood at the bus station and watched until there was nobody else.

Alone and invisible he wandered around the small downtown, simply observing. He knew he had to go home. He had to find a way home. He could call one of his few friends, call a colleague, call a cab. Possibilities, obscure and likely, came one after another in his thoughts. It was a small decision, how to get home, yet he couldn't figure out what to do. The thought of returning to Princeton, to work, to the life he'd been plucked from was daunting. He couldn't step back in to the world of Dr. Robert Chase, not while he was still felt as numb and disconnected as he'd learnt to feel in Trenton.

Rob somehow made it to a small downtown park. His feet stopped in front a bench and he sat for no other reason than benches were for sitting. A ray of sunlight reflected off the shiny paintjob of a passing car. His eyes close briefly protecting them and when he opened them again his face was tilted upwards towards the bright daylight that he'd missed. For three months the sun had been dim and the clouds had been darker and greyer. Now everything seemed like what he remembered of bright days and white clouds. He couldn't explain how. He just knew the sun didn't shine as brightly in prison.

His precious sun began to set though it seemed only minutes had passed since it was high in the afternoon sky. The sky had changed from bright blue to the sunset hues of orange and magenta. For too long he'd only seen these colours through a small square of window high on the back wall of his cell and framed by the dark, gloom of his detention. Now, immersed in the daily transition of day to night, Rob felt his own colour returning. Not broken, just lost, he thought abstractly to himself.

At last his cell phone was retrieved from his bag. He flipped it open and held down the power button for several seconds with no result. The battery was dead. He hadn't had a chance to turn it off before he was jailed.

Robert sighed and put the device back in his bag thinking that he'd charge it when he got home. The charger was next to his bed. He always left it plugged into the wall so that he could just hook up his phone to it before he went to bed. He'd need his key to get in. Robert searched with is hand through his bag and felt the familiar press of cold metal on his skin. He'd paid his rent for a year in advance so he still had a place to go. His phone and cable were probably disconnected though. He was going to shrug –about the most expression he could find at the moment –when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

"You're a hard man to find!"

Chase let the tension ebb away before turning to the familiar voice of his colleague. His first reaction had been to turn and strike first before whoever was behind him had the chance. Thankfully, he was able to quell the urge.

"Hey, Foreman." Chase stood, slipping out of the other man's grasp.

Foreman noticed the move and understood. "I've got my car illegally parked over there. Come on." They walked in silence halfway to Foreman's E-class Benz, Foreman trying to think of something to say. How are you? wasn't something Foreman would usually ask and considering where Chase had just come from it was pretty obvious that any honest answer would just be a variant of "crappy".

"Washington called to let us know that you were being released. It was kind of last minute. I was the only one free so I thought I'd pick you up. Y'know."

Chase nodded in acknowledgement. "Thanks."

Foreman gave a slight dip of his head and they lapsed into silence. He wouldn't say anything about the near frantic phone calls between him, House and Washington when the he arrived at the Trenton bus terminal and couldn't find Chase. He'd spent over an hour looking around the small city and it had only been when he pushed himself to think like man who had just regained his freedom that he figure Chase would seek somewhere calm and danger free. It had been a big relief to finally find the wayward blond just sitting there and staring into the distance, revelling in so much freedom he didn't know what to do with it.

The twelve-mile journey to Princeton was made without conversation. Early in the trip Foreman had turned on his stereo. In the CD in the tray was a hip-hop one. Foreman had considered turning on the radio rather than be labelled the typical black guy who liked rap but Chase had never really labelled him anything but a neurologist. It was the bias of spoiled, white-boy that he put on Chase that suggested he would put a similar bias on him. It did occur to him that Chase had never addressed him by anything but his name or specialty, and he never got a vibe of restrained racism from the Aussie. Between the two of them the only one who seemed to be judging simply on skin colour (and hair colour and familial connections) was Foreman.

Letting go of his initial reaction to Chase was a slow process. When they went to conferences it seemed like Chase was the favourite nephew of half the doctors, which only served to reinforce the rich-kid stereotype. He'd lost count of how many times he'd said Chase was rich only to have the other man counter with "My dad's rich. Not me." He wasn't sure how true that was. Chase didn't act like the typical trust-fund baby born with a silver spoon up his ass so most of the time he was okay with Chase. When he could forget about his looks and his father, and judge him simply as another guy, another doctor, Chase was okay.

"Where are we going?" Chase noticed belatedly that they'd arrived back in Princeton. However they weren't heading to his apartment. It seemed like they were going to PPTH.

"Hospital, to get you checked over," Foreman said as though it was perfectly acceptable. Maybe to him. Not to Chase.

"No. I want to go home."

"You've been moving stiffly and favouring your left side. I know you didn't get through three months in there without at least getting into a fight or two. You need medical attention."

"They're just bruises. I can give myself medical attention," Chase protested.

"Alright," Foreman sighed. In truth it was House that had told him to bring Chase to the hospital to get him checked out. The man hadn't calmed at all over the last few days. He'd been snapping at anyone who trespassed on his solitude. Cuddy had finally had enough and it was in the middle of a huge argument with her –Cameron in the clinic and Foreman next door, studiously not listening –that Washington had called to inform them that Chase was being released as they spoke. House had grabbed his keys and Cuddy had grabbed them from him, so House sent Foreman, yelling orders to him until he was out of sight.

Chase directed Foreman to his apartment and Foreman held any comments he had about the state of the building.

"Thanks." Chase undid his seatbelt and got out.

Foreman leaned across the partition between the two front seats so that he could still see Chase. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," he assured.

Foreman watched until the door to the building closed behind Chase. He had to go back to work. Returning without Chase was going to mean House on his case for who knows how long. He was willing to take the risk because right now Chase didn't need House badgering him. Well, nobody needed House badgering him. Foreman drove off.

H 

Wilson paused at the door and crossed his arms. House didn't even look away from the TV or move his feet from the corner of the bed where he had them resting. It probably would have been a bother to the patient if he were conscious. As it was the coma patient wouldn't be complaining to anyone soon, neither about the intrusion into his private room nor the obnoxiously loud television.

"At least he won't come complaining to me."

"If you took my advice you wouldn't have anybody troubling you at all."

"Holding your tongue would also work." Wilson walked in far enough to get a view of the TV. "Besides I think an electrical shock would be a little much." House had jokingly, at least Wilson hoped it was jokingly, suggested that a bit of electricity to the handle of his door would drastically reduce his visitors. House had even assured him that the shock wouldn't even hurt that much. Wilson still didn't know how exactly House had tested how much the shock would hurt. He'd never asked.

"Wuss. So, you gonna go see him?"

"See who?"

House let is head loll back to emphasize the roll of his eyes. "Come on. There's no need to be coy. The cutie in records can't fool me. I know the real blond that you're after. Wine, dine, and then dreams, hopes and aspirations, right? I'd emphasize the wine. Chase looks like a lightweight."

"You've certainly given this a lot of thought."

"I'm just that type of guy."

"Why don't you let me worry about my getting laid."

"So you admit you are trying to bone Chase. That was easier than I expected. I'm disappointed, Jimmy. Where's the challenge?"

"You're not concerned about the challenge." James slid the door closed. "It's almost as though you're just…concerned about him. Either that or…" the younger doctor shook his head slowly in uncertainty. "Or maybe there's something you want."

Silent seconds passed, slowly filling the room with tension as a long ignored possibility made an entrance. House kept his eyes on the TV but didn't really see any of what was going on. James let his eyes flick around the room and then to the older doctor's face trying to determine if this would be the time that they finally addressed this.

When they'd first met House had baited him, challenged him, even flirted with him in front of his girlfriend. He somehow derived some perverse pleasure in watching the colour rise in James's face and knowing that the man would never do anything about it. Teasing James was relieving to House and safe. By the time James had been desensitized to the homoerotic nature of his interaction with House his soon to be second wife (and second divorce) was pushing to set a date and James hadn't (still didn't) know how to say no.

They'd stayed friends, seeing each other often, blowing off dates and wives just to hang out. It was a friendship fraught with so many near _Brokeback_-moments that it was still a wonder that James's second wife hadn't accused him of having an affair with Greg.

In the face of James Wilson's glaring heterosexuality and in the company of Gregory House's lack of tact this thing between them had evolved, mutated in to what they had now. The spark of excitement at their near intuitive understanding of each other, the challenges, both serious and juvenile with which they contested each other, and the general ease of interaction, the lack of misunderstandings and easy forgiveness, it had only been between them. It was unique even if it did age and become less enthralling with time. It was special and neither had intended for there to be a third member of the little club.

The same curiosity, a similar charisma and an endlessly entertaining accent to boot –Chase wasn't part of the plan. House wasn't supposed to smile at his jokes –that was Wilson's smile. Wilson wasn't supposed to confide in Chase –those were House's confessions. The smoke and ashes had been rekindled by a spark that, though dulled, still held more heat than the stale remains between the two of them.

Old enough, wise enough, cynical enough to take what they can find at this later stage, a fling with Chase was a better consolation prize than James had expected after the failures of his true loves. Greg was still undecided.

A shift in House's body language closed the moment. In the past James had been the one end them. "Pass along my regards to him."

"Go see him yourself." The venom in his voice was the only outward proof of the old and silent argument between them. If this were like the other times they'd push it back in to the closet (no pun intended) and lock it shut. Things would be normal by the next morning. James wasn't sure if that would happen this time.

Yet, in spite of their protests, both new the other's nature. That was why House wasn't surprised when the door to Chase's apartment was answered that night by Wilson and why Wilson wasn't surprised to answer the door and find House. Chase was too numb to do more than wonder at the tension between the two of them and too tired to address it. That wasn't really his style anyway. He went back to the strings of his guitar as he sat on the floor leaning languidly against his couch.

"You don't have to be here." Rob was too tired to soften his accent to the thinner one he usually spoke with. The fingers of his right hand fell with practiced ease across the strings of his instrument while his left hand shifted up and down the neck of his guitar creating the flow of melancholy notes to fill the silence he'd found he couldn't stand. No matter how complete the silence there was always a faint sound of Trenton. He had to drown it out.

Seated in the armchair House was tempted to knock the guitar out of his hands and yell at him to get out of his funk in the hopes that Chase would yell back. He knew already that the only reaction he would get would be the blank stare that was currently focussed on the brick wall above his television. Besides, Chase was entitled to his own musical outlet. House had his but it wasn't like this. When he played the piano he could be true to himself, and true to his other craft, the one his mother thought would be good for a rambunctious child. She'd begun to rethink her idea after he son scared off three teachers. Still he kept at it and by the time he was done with piano teachers there wasn't much left for them to teach him. He imagined the Chase parents had pushed an instrument on him as well and House was willing to bet it was the violin –hence the piece of music he'd discovered so long ago when he and Cameron had searched the small apartment –and not the guitar.

House watched Wilson watch Chase from his seat on the couch. Was James wondering whether Chase had sat around with Zinedine and just played their guitars together? Was that the moment Chase was trying to recreate in his head? A moment where he and Wilson weren't here crowding his personal space with their undesired attention.

The sad notes of _Classical Gas_ slowed for no apparent reason other than the guitarist. His fingers finally stilled and the sound of drizzling rain outside filled the apartment with soft background noise. Robert looked around and a slight smile pulled his lips. Its sudden appearance only made the other two men feel more worried and one of them more guilty.

"It wasn't Moriarty," he said softly and turned to look at House. "He was a pawn." Chase turned away and resumed playing. He would glance at House every once in a while as though trying to gauge something. House had to wonder if his guilt was that obvious, that palpable.

Into the music, a more Latin flavour this time, which Chase played with surprising soul considering his near catatonic state at the moment, House spoke. "You need to go to the hospital." Even with just the slight movements he made to play the guitar House's crafty eyes could point out numerous points of tension. And he probably needed to be tested. Prisons were pretty big transmission zones for STDs and other infections.

"I've already been." After Foreman had dropped him off Chase had taken a long hot shower and then taken his own car and driven to a hospital far enough away that he hoped nobody would think to go there trying to snoop in his business.

Over the blond head James met Greg's eyes. They saw mutual unrest in each others' gaze. Chase was a pretty laid back guy, not prone to emotional outbursts unless pushed so they hadn't expected a grand breakdown. Neither was entirely sure what they'd been expecting. Calm and silence definitely wasn't on that list. There were shadows behind his eyes though; memories of things that he had yet to deal with. How far back those shadows came from House could not tell. He imagined there were a lot of things that Chase didn't deal with, at least not in any way that was healthy.

Wilson had fought the urge but in the end he gave in and brushed his hand through the unfamiliar and uneven haircut Chase now wore. The music came to an abrupt end. Wilson's face pulled in a strained frown and his eyes were sad as he realized his mistake. "Sorry." Chase nodded stiffly. "I was just worried about you." Chase swallowed with difficulty and reached up to take Wilson's hand. He squeezed it briefly trying to convey something that he couldn't articulate verbally. House watched the interaction, quelling an inkling of an unwanted emotion as he took in the familiarity of the touch.

James knew Greg too well not to notice and sighed. "I was drunk, House," he admitted in a tone that said on its own that he didn't want to tell this story. "Stumbling out of the bar and to my car when Chase found me."

"Drinking and driving, Jimmy?" House chastised not only for the obvious stupidity of what he'd almost done but for not calling him either to join in on the drinking or to pick him up when he was too inebriated to get himself home.

"You weren't high on my list of people to see at the time." Sometimes he did need time away from his friend. Sometimes he just wanted to wallow in self-pity and not be analysed. He was not going to share that night's topic of melancholy. It was not something of which he was proud and it was not something he was completely over.

"So you took him home," House deduced, his mind already going to numerous scenarios that lead to Chase and Wilson in bed together. There was that flare of unwanted emotion. He beat it down and waited for the rest of the story.

"I didn't know where he lived," Chase said without looking at him. "I brought him here."

The recount stalled again so Greg prompted. "And you guys did the horizontal tango…"

"No. I…" James rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish expression on his face. "I was drunk. I came on to him."

House glanced down to Chase who didn't seem to mind that Wilson was revealing what they'd kept from him for months. The memories were hazy to Wilson with the exception of a few moments and a few feelings. The memories were perfectly clear for Chase, except for the moments of remembered horror. He'd smelt the gin on Wilson's breath and the scent already had his stomach rolling. The close proximity, the hands tugging at his clothing had been too much. He'd been trying to settle the drunken man on his couch when Wilson decided that he wanted Chase to join him. The struggle had them toppling off the couch and landing with a thud on the floor. Even with the carpet it was a hard landing due to the hard wood underneath. It was enough to bring a little sobriety to Wilson such that he noticed the stark expression on the younger man's face and he let go. Chase scurried away from him but his back hit the coffee table and there was only maybe two feet between them. A few even breaths had returned a semblance of Chase's usual calm though even in his drunken stupor Wilson could see how shaken up he'd made his Good Samaritan and he began apologizing.

"And you just forgave him? No devious plans, no favours. I thought I taught you better than that," House said after Wilson's narrative of the event.

Chase shrugged.

"I bet you forgave her too."

Wilson didn't know what House meant by that. Not until Chase responded.

He shrugged again. "She's my mother."

A mother who in her own drunken rage had forgotten the face of her son, at least until the next morning when she sobbed and begged his forgiveness. Each time he gave it to her and each time she promised never again. Each promise was broken and her touches, sober or drunk, hurt a little more each time after.

The dawn of discovery on Wilson's face was quickly followed by something distinctly greener and more nauseous-looking. House turned his gaze back to Chase. Wilson could deal with his own emotions. He was more worried about Chase's lack of the same. He was beginning to wonder if Chase had just snapped, if this was his version of a breakdown. Somehow Greg didn't think so.

"I'm tired." Chase laid his guitar on the seat of the couch behind him and got up. Wilson stood with him. House remained seated.

"When you coming back to work?" he asked from the chair.

"I still have a job?"

"Have I fired you?"

There was a stretch of silence as Chase tried to decide if and when he'd go back. "A couple of days," he finally decided. House nodded and watched Chase walk past the kitchen area to the partition that hid the bed.

"Come on, House," Wilson said when Chase was out of sight. "It's getting late."

He nodded slowly in agreement. The small arm had crept irrevocably to the twelve on the face of his watch. Quite a bit of time had passed since they had arrived here. Between the music and the silence time had seemed to crawl, yet a glance at the clock corrected that sensory misconception.

House and Wilson left together and in silence. They closed the door behind them after reminding Chase to lock it. When they made it to the ground floor and to the street where both their cars were parked, they paused. The rain had stopped leaving a blanket to jewel-like drops over their respective vehicles. It would be easy to say something, put to rest or bring to life this thing between them that was years old. Nothing like that happened. First Wilson, then House, they turned away from each other and went home.

H 

Three days later Dr. Chase returned to work. Foreman greeted him in his usual manner though he did look somewhat surprised at his quick return. Cameron gave him a hug and professed how worried she was about him and so on. She didn't notice how stiff the blond man was when she had her arms wrapped around him. House, watching from his desk did notice and shook his head at her ineptness. Foreman and Cameron filled Chase in on what had happened while he was away. There wasn't much. They'd only had a few cases. More interesting would have been Chase's tales of Trenton but his shield of silence as he sat at the glass table with his coffee was enough to warn them away from any questions about his experiences in the big house.

Clinic duty was a nice, mind-numbing way of getting back in to the groove of the hospital. The nurses greeted him in much the same way as Cameron, much to his annoyance. In general there was little fanfare to mark his return to work. There had been little to no media coverage about the Islington double murder since the day months ago when the police found their bodies. Other issues, domestic and international were screamed across the news headlines and a double murder with possible mob connections just wasn't news worthy. Many people didn't even know why he had been away in the first place and Chase was thankful for the privacy.

By the afternoon the diagnostics team had a new case. Foreman had found this one during his clinic duty and though House had ridiculed his patient and his symptoms he did right them on the board because they were unusual. Differentials were flying fast and furious and many being dropped just as quickly. Chase didn't add much to the process so when it was time to do the testing House sent him to the lab to do the grunt work. He didn't protest, just got up and left to carry out the order.

"I guess prison made him more obedient," said House.

Cameron shook her head at him, astonished at his callous behaviour. She knew he'd been worried about Chase before and it'd been nice to see a glimpse of humanity in the usually cantankerous doctor. The glimpse had been mostly of an angry and frustrated man, certainly not worth Chase being imprisoned, and it seemed the show was over.

"You could give him a break," Cameron suggested.

"Come now. That wouldn't be like me. What he needs it familiarity, structure…"

"Compassion?"

House turned to face Foreman's exasperated look head-on. "Again, out of character." He headed for the exit. "I thought you guys knew me better than that."

Foreman shook his head, a half smile pulling up one corner of his mouth. He watched House through the glass wall as he left, strangely not in the direction of Wilson's office. Cameron also followed House's exit with her eyes before she noticed the smile on Foreman's face. She'd just dealt with House she couldn't deal with a conniving Foreman.

"What?" she asked, giving him a sharp look as she waited for him to spill.

The neurology specialist crossed his arms and tilted his head forward to look up at her through his brows. "He accuses the rest of us of only pretending to care and ridicules us when we do care. When he cares he plays it off by pretending he's pretending. The guy tries so freaking hard not to be like the rest of the world and only succeeds in the smallest and most annoying ways."

Cameron shrugged at the oversimplification. "He still succeeds though." She got up.

"Where you going?"

"You said he needed compassion right? And since that is my weakness," she said in a mockery of what House had always picked on her about. She followed a similar path out as House though she went the opposite way down the corridor. Foreman didn't say anything as she left. He wasn't sure what she was expecting. It was going to take more than just a face prettier than his to make Chase feel better. Her brand of compassion wasn't going to be much of a hit either. It was just who she was that she'd try to help, try to confront the issues, and offer advice. She'd done the same when Rowan Chase had visited. Chase hadn't appreciated the intrusion in to his personal life at the time but that wasn't enough to thwart future attempts.

Foreman sat at the conference table, alone and waited about a minute before picking up the phone to make a page. He plucked a medical text from the shelf and began to read up on some of the possible causes for their patient's symptoms. He hadn't gotten very far when there was a knock on the glass wall. Chase gave him a small wave as he held up his beeper, silently and quickly thanking him for giving him an out in the conversation that Cameron had just begun. Her heart was in the right place –it rarely wasn't –he just didn't feel like talking to her. He didn't feel like talking to anyone. Foreman and House weren't the talking type so no worries there, and thanks to Foreman he was able to escape Cameron. He hoped he hadn't been too eager to attend to the "consult" and leave the experiments to run. He didn't want to hurt her feelings he just needed to be alone with what happened.

Cameron returned to the conference room a minute after Chase passed by. Foreman continued reading the text.

She sat down. She crossed her legs. "A consult, huh?" She asked, across the table from the dark-skinned man.

Foreman didn't try to hide the upward turn of his lips.

"It's a busy hospital."

H 

In an empty hospital room Chase laid on the bed, the blinds closed and door jammed shut, as he contemplated the overrating often given to words. He didn't want to talk and he'd taken the first chance to escape the conversation Cameron would have forced up on him. He liked her and, like most patients, he found her presence comforting. On another level it was nice to know that there were still some good people out there, even though he knew he'd never rank among them. Cameron had an air about her that exuded peace and tranquility and if he could, he'd just sit next to her, and feel a little less bad –but he wouldn't speak a word.

He hoped one day soon she'd realize that some things were just broken and couldn't be made into what they had been before.

H 

**End Chapter 10**

The next chapter will probably be posted Friday or Saturday. There are only five, maybe six left in the story. Stay tuned.

Sagga…


	12. Chapter 11

Warning(s): Language.

**Chapter 11**

A few hours later the patient was on their way to recovery. It turned out to be an infection –pretty garden variety, if you're fertilizing your garden with your own feces and then eat without properly washing your hands. Still, people do strange things and sometimes it's just strange circumstances. It wasn't the typical type of case for the diagnostics team but they couldn't all be hits. Every once in a while there was a miss and it left them pretty antsy. They'd geared up for another marathon diagnostic and testing session. They were ready for numerous differentials, ready to duck Cuddy, steal MRI time and pretty much do whatever it took to save their patient. That their patient wasn't that sick was kind of a let down. And House wasn't about to let Foreman forget it. This patient had been his idea.

The jibes and taunts quickly got tiring and the three fellows made their escape when House's back was turned, literally. He went to his office to get his oversized tennis ball, still ranting, and when he turned back the conference room was empty.

House's eyes shifted across the vacant room. Their mugs of coffee and bottles of water were still out. The pen Chase had been gnawing was abandoned on the table, as was the journal Foreman had been using as a shield against their boss's remarks. The only things missing were the three people that had been there a moment ago.

"Oh, hoh hoh! I trained them too well." With a smile he walked to the table and picked up the still full cup of coffee Chase had bought from some café he'd gone to on his break. House wasn't familiar with the place and when, with an unconcerned raise of his eyebrows, he sipped, he wasn't fond of the flavour. Too sweet –just the way Chase liked it, so he sipped again. He savoured the beverage that he didn't like and welcomed the return of many more tomorrow, the next day, and the day after. Standing there alone with the characteristic silence of the hospital –that wasn't really silence at all with the ambient tone from the busy people and sick people not far away –he took the time to bask in the almost-normalcy. He could feel it sliding back. The siren song of familiarity and comfort beckoned and it would have been so easy to follow it. He could antagonize them while throwing a very unusual case in their lap. Watch them scurry to best each other with their respective diagnoses. When he gave out work he could split it into packets of three again. He could watch Chase slide back in to the image he'd been portraying probably his whole life. He came to a decision.

H 

Chase's head dropped when he heard the door open. He considered hiding behind one of the ventilation intakes. The person would look around, find nothing and leave. He'd have his solace again or at least silence. Solace was far away.

He didn't hide though. It seemed a little too childish. Besides, if someone really wanted to find him there were only so many places he could go. The roof was his favourite.

Chase glanced to the side then turned back to the view. He didn't ask House why he was here. He didn't really want to know. He knew that House would speak when he wanted to and not a moment sooner, so he saved his breath.

An autumn breeze drifted over the hospital catching in the short strands of blonde hair on the younger man's head. House tried not to stare. The uneven cut, that he imagined Chase had done himself and rather hastily in Trenton, had been evened out, probably by a barber in the days between his release and his return to work. It looked good. He'd heard many of the nurses commenting on the new cut. They didn't know the story behind it though, so for them it was just a new look. House and the others knew. All House could see was the story behind it and the shadows behind Chase's peculiarly coloured eyes. They weren't quite blue and not exactly green. It was a hue House had spent quite a bit of time trying to name even before Chase had been incarcerated, before he found out about Chase's relationship with the late Zinedine René. Now those eyes were coloured with melancholy and buried pain. House knew that much of that was because of him.

Chase had said it wasn't. He'd said they were pawns and that was all. But that wasn't all. The little voice in his head was telling him that wasn't all. And somewhere in the 'all' he couldn't clearly define, House thought he could see his handiwork. Chase's attempt to assuage his guilt hadn't helped. It only made House see that the young man was either blinded by his admiration and just couldn't see it, or that perhaps Chase liked him and wanted to protect him. It was…romantic, which House usually equated with stupid. Usually.

It wasn't stupid however if it worked in his favour, and the devious part of his mind that couldn't be silenced was screaming at him that he had an in and to take it. Chase actually liked him, the person that he was –most of the time anyway. It was enough and he couldn't turn his back to that.

"You okay?" From the corner of his eye he could see Chase's expression morph into moderate confusion at the uncharacteristic inquiry.

"I'm fine."

House nodded knowing that Chase was lying –or if not lying then at least deluding himself. He wasn't sure which was worse but he knew which would lead to a bigger fall when everything finally caught up with him.

Chase's mind was busy trying to deduce House's motives. It wasn't an easy job. People like House could seem so simple one moment and then supremely complex the next. In the end it was an easy way to ignore his own problems.

"So what's with you and Wilson?" Chase asked not taking his eyes from the horizon. He may not have been paying a whole lot of attention a couple of nights ago but he'd have to be blind, deaf, and extremely dumb not to notice the tension.

House didn't react sharply to the question. "Do you really want to know?"

Chase shrugged.

"When did you realize you liked guys?" House asked with the same frankness as Chase's question about his personal life. It wasn't revenge. He was trying to feel out which avenue would get to what he wanted.

Again Chase shrugged. "When he came on to me and I wasn't immediately revolted."

"René," House deduced. His hunch was confirmed with a nod.

"Why so curious about my sexuality? Questioning yours?"

House snorted. "Please." He liked to think he always knew what he was. Straight, gay, bi, whatever, those were labels for people who needed to fit themselves into something bigger. He didn't feel that need. He could be objective about looks and attraction, but there were few people with whom he'd actually allow himself to take that attraction further, especially if he wasn't paying them.

"Then why are you here?"

"Can't I just care?"

Chase gave up on a straight answer. Straight –the word brought a weak laugh out of him. "Nothing," he said when House looked questioningly at him. "I'm going in," he announced and pivoted to do just that.

House wasn't about to let him go. "When are you going to stop pretending like it didn't happen?" he asked out to the landscape where a few keen trees were already beginning to change colour.

Chase didn't turn around completely, only enough that he could see House clearly.

"Excuse you?" His eyes narrowed and his tone dared House to be so brazen as to assume he knew anything about what was in his head.

House faced him and didn't back down. "You were raped!"

The admission, even from someone else's lips hit him like an accusing slap to the face. Chase shook his head, lips pressed into a thin, angry line. "–probably on more than one occasion, possibly by more than one inmate."

"Shut up!" Chase's hands were balled into tight fists, the pain of his nails digging in to his palm distracting him from the pounding of his heart and the threatening images of past violations.

"It's not the hardest deduction to make. You're quiet, withdrawn, depressed even. And I know that you couldn't fight them all off. Not by yourself." Not with looks like that. Even angry Chase was nice to stare at.

"Sod off, House!"

"Cursing at me isn't going to help you."

"You're not one to talk about needing help! Your leg is fine but you're still popping Vicodin like a druggy!"

"At least I can admit it," House countered, undeterred by the attack. He wasn't going to let this conversation be shifted. He liked the emotion he was finally getting out of the other man.

Chase threw his arms up in exasperation. "What do you want me to do? You want to me to rant and rage, throw things, break something?"

"For starters."

"And after that can I cry on your shoulder?" Chase scoffed.

"If you want." The swift and honest answer brought the argument to a quick halt. "But if you ruin my shirt you have to get me a new one, and not the ugly ones that you have. I don't know where you shop but we'll have to find somewhere-"

"Wait," Chase interrupted still confused. "What…" He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands before letting them drag down his face. House wasn't sure if he was surprised or not that Chase's eyes were completely dry. "You want me to…"

House finished simply, "I want you to move past this."

Chase wanted to tell him it wasn't that easy. There was so much that House didn't know. So much that only he could know. He couldn't move anywhere until it was resolved. He wasn't sure how that was going to happen. He got the feeling he was waiting for something. They did the same thing when they had a tough case, waited for something to change. He had that same anxious and impotent feeling now.

"I will." It sounded like a promise. It was the best he could do for now. House seemed to agree and his head dipped just a little in a nod. He blinked down the paved roof for a moment then back up to Chase. Seconds ticked by until finally House made a move. He walked until he was in front of the Aussie, just a little offset and –after a brief hesitation while his mind rapidly evaluated the wisdom of his next action –he reached to gently uncurl the tense fist of the younger man's left hand. He ran his thumb in a massaging motion along the red indents in Chase's palm made by the force of his nails biting in to them.

Chase's head was tilted down, watching with a detached fascination the movements of the older, more worn, but no less skilled hands. He told him again, "You don't have to feel guilty."

House shook his head not wanting Chase to chalk all of this up to guilt. Guilt faded with time. Sometimes it lingered for ages but its potency was lost only to flare up in moments few and far between. No, this wasn't all guilt. It just forced him to face his part in all this and what his part could be as he made amends and beyond. It coerced him into revealing more of himself than usual, whispered to him that this risk might be worth the reward. He could stuff it all back to the corner of his mind and let things go back to a semblance of what they were, but after months of worrying, raging and fighting, that wasn't an easy task. Those hidden, barely acknowledged sentiments were exposed by his remorse, forcing the revelation of this opportunity. He both owed it to try and was owed this chance.

Chase gently extricated his hand from the other man's grip, growing more uncomfortable with the proximity and the intimacy as time ticked by. House let go, easily reading the volumes of tension. He remained there trying to catch Chase's eyes, succeeding for a moment, and then he walked to the exit catching eyes briefly with the person standing in the doorway. House didn't know how much of the exchange had been witnessed. He wouldn't ask although he'd have ample opportunity to do so. He grabbed on to the white lab coat hanging off the broad shoulders, and pulled taking Dr. Wilson with him. They left Chase on the roof, non-the-wiser.

"He's not ready for a relationship, House."

As soon as there were out of sight of the roof access, and he was sure that Wilson wasn't going to rush back up, House let go of the lab coat and continued his descent. "So I guess it's okay for you since you just want to fuck him."

"At least I'm not fucking with him!"

The diagnostician stopped mid-flight. "I'm not."

James descended so that he was standing on the same stair. He didn't like that he had to look up to meet his friend's eyes but they need to be on the same level, in both senses.

James thought he was beginning to see, to understand. This was it. The end of that ignored something between them. A little more attention, a little TLC and it could have been something like what Greg seemed to have, or could with another man. Wilson admitted his fault in all this. He'd picked Chase, someone like House but less intimidating, less important to him personally but who was still entwined with the diagnostician. If he'd started something with the intensivist and it had ended badly, he would have shrugged, maybe had a good laugh –because he could be callous like that sometimes –and moved on. He couldn't have done the same with House. Messing up their unique and important friendship wasn't an option. He couldn't risk it. As much as he might love Greg in some way that went beyond that of best-est buddies, he couldn't risk loosing him, upsetting this precarious balance. God knew there were times when he hated House, but he didn't know if he could make it without him.

So he would step back here. Step away from the situation, let House pursue with another an option he'd lost, maybe years ago. He nodded to himself, his choice made.

"Just-"

"I know," House interrupted in a whine. When his eyes rolled back down from the ceiling he repeated it again, "I know," this time in all seriousness.

Wilson's lips parted a little as though something was about to be said. House watched the movement closely. The familiar motion was an alluring mystery of sensation he'd never know. Wilson's mouth closed again without sound. His head dipped forward, a nod of acceptance, of defeat, maybe both. The oncologist descended to the next level and walked out the doors to from the stairwell to the floor.

After watching the door swing closed Greg stared up at the underside of the above flight of stairs, lamenting for what was lost and at the same time being grateful for what he still had, and might one day have.

H 

They'd just received word and it set the gears spinning in Detective Bobby Goren's head. The NYPD detective had gathered stacks of information about the Islington murders and Dr. Chase's arrest. His boss hadn't been pleased with the side-project distracting him from his current cases but sometimes you had to let the man follow his hunch. So the Captain had initially given Goren and Eames some time to put it all together but there were so many moving pieces, so many players it had been hard to know who was controlling who. Slowly their crusade had taken a back seat to their active investigations and the Chase conundrum relegated to a bottom drawer and a corner of their minds. Or so it had been until this new development.

"Emmanuel Montrose is dead."

At her partner's announcement the blonde woman began flipping through her notes, trying to figure out who Montrose was and how he was connected to their case. It sometimes bothered her that she couldn't make the leaps of knowledge that he did. She didn't like feeling left behind. Right now she couldn't recall anyone by the name Montrose connected to the current string of murders in to which they were looking.

"No, he's from the Islington case," Goren provided. He dropped into the chair at his desk. "They say it was suicide." He held up the paper sent from the Medical Examiner's office.

Eames closed her notepad. "They say?" She watched him shrug in a manner that usually indicated he was going with the opinion of the experts even though he suspected different.

"The M.E. thinks suicide –won't be certain until the autopsy is complete. They found him with a sheet tied around his neck and the bars to his cell. It looks like he just kneeled and leaned forward until he asphyxiated."

"Well, suicides aren't uncommon in prison."

"No, they aren't. But it could have been staged." He began rifling through the drawers of his desk looking for the file he'd put his Islington/Chase case notes in.

Eames was turning his theory over in her head. She'd learnt not to ignore outright her partners suppositions, no matter how contrived they might seem. He was right more often than he was wrong. "A suicide wouldn't be investigated as much as a murder. It's usually pretty easy to tell who's on whose bad side."

"So somebody on Montrose's bad side who wanted to get rid of him without drawing attention to himself would kill him and make it look like a suicide," said Bobby Goren, triumphant at last. After being unable to get a clear picture of the players in this whole mess he'd been unable to put together a coherent theory. The Warden of Trenton had directed his inquiries to the head of the prison guards, Theriault. That man had been less than helpful but not quite belligerent enough for Goren to call him out on it. Now he had something solid.

He quickly pulled a file from the bottom drawer and dumped it on the top of his desk before the notes could fly out. They'd only connected Montrose to Chase through the doctor's involvement with the criminal's son. It had been their last breakthrough before the case had fallen off their radar, and it hadn't brought them any closer to who was behind the previously suspected and now confirmed framing. "Emmanuel Orel Montrose, citizen of Switzerland, naturalized in nineteen seventy-one. No wife, one son: Zinedine René Montrose, who lived mostly with his mother and only visited his father on special occasions. The elder Montrose was arrested on racketeering charges, convicted and sentenced to ten years in Trenton. Although he's based in New York they could only make the Jersey counts stick."

"Racketeering is mob territory," Eames added.

Goren nodded, barely suppressing his excitement that his theory was coming together and was believable. He continued in a rush. "Ties to the Massucci family couldn't be substantiated and Montrose didn't fold."

"So they're not after him for turning on them. Who would want Montrose dead? Rival crime syndicate?"

Goren pointed at her indicating he'd been thinking the same thing. "Antony Yarrow –my less than forthcoming sources in Trenton peg him as Montrose's number one enemy. Apparently Yarrow and Montrose have crossed paths before, tried to muscle the other out of business with limited success."

"So he has motive. Means and opportunity couldn't have been hard to come by. Now what about Chase? How does he fit? His only connection to this was through Montrose's son." The short investigation into Zinedine's suicide named Chase as the last person to talk to him, but nothing about why he'd ended his life was found. What little Chase could give the detectives on that case hadn't lead to much. So long as somebody hadn't killed René, 'why' hadn't been high on the list of things to determine and the file was closed.

Goren wasn't sure yet what part Dr. Chase played in all this. "The only person I can see benefiting from anything that's happened is Yarrow and he does have the connections to get Chase framed for murder especially if it had been his people who'd committed the actual crime. He'd have the details, the connections, possibly including a cop with enough access to plant incriminating evidence." They'd both heard about the hair test that was done exonerating Chase from the murders but with IAB sniffing around they'd kept their distance.

Eames entered Yarrow's name into the police database wanting to familiarize herself with the man. She found something disconcerting in the file. "A murder staged to look like suicide would be pretty good for Yarrow. Wouldn't want anything to interfere with is release in two days."

H 

It had been two days since the exchange between Chase and House on the roof. The diagnostics department hadn't been all that busy. No new cases had come their way so it was just the usual routine of clinic duty and boredom. Crosswords, magazines and email were the distractions of choice for the three younger doctors. Dr. House, leader of the pack entertained himself with his usual toys and some thoughts on Dr. Chase. In truly House-ian fashion he was deconstructing his attraction to the Australian. Listing pros and cons of a relationship that hadn't even started yet, and trying to gage precisely what it was that made Robert Chase so physically alluring.

He'd spent quite a lot of time staring at his ass. Spent more time staring at his hair and had decided that Chase would grow it out so that it was its former, floppy length. The short hair didn't look bad. In any other situation he would have made numerous comments most of them probably compliments on how pretty his face was. They'd always known Chase was a handsome man, now he could see clearly why. He could see what the long hair had hidden.

Without the shadow of his bangs the overhead lights accented the fine structure of his cheekbones. His smooth skin coaxed curious eyes into following the tantalizing contours of his face and the line of his jaw, then up to the pink lips, the delicately angled nose, only to be caught by the eyes, those beguiling eyes. Just trying to decide what name to give the colour was a challenge. Blue-green, aquamarine, cyan, teal –everybody would have a different opinion. With the natural kohl from the set of his eyes below his brow and the lighting to emphasize, Chase's new look, and his looks period, were the topic of more than a few whispered conversations around the hospital. If it were possible, Chase could be more of a heartbreaker now than he had been before. And let's not forget those willing to offer their services to reacquaint the newly released inmate back to the free world, since that rumour had started to make its rounds.

So, Greg had come to the conclusion that although Chase was pretty, it wasn't a highly feminizing pretty (just a little feminizing). He tilted his head to the side a little and watched closely Chase's face in profile as he checked his pager. He said something then got up and left. House watched his exit, watched how he walked and it was only after the man was out of sight that he became curious about the page.

He tossed his tennis ball against the glass getting the attention of Drs. Cameron and Foreman.

"Where's he off to?"

"Cuddy," Cameron informed and went back to the computer screen.

House leaned back, contemplating for a moment before he sprung from his chair and left his office. When he arrived at Cuddy's he saw Chase on her phone with Dr. Cuddy watching from her desk. She saw House coming and shook her head at him, an indication that he should leave. Not to her surprise he didn't. His entrance in to the administrator's office was blocked however, by the locked doors.

House jiggled the handle surprised at their foresight. He had his own method of foresight though. He took out his ring of useful hospital keys and found the one he needed. With a smirk he slipped it in to the lock and turned. Or he tried to turn. The lock didn't budge. He looked up at Cuddy who was smirking at him from across her desk.

"Touché," House conceded with tilt of his head. She'd changed the lock. He watched from through the glass windows on the door as Chase ended the conversation over the phone and hung up. After a second to gather himself, Chase said something to Cuddy and she nodded, saying something in return. Frustrated, House promised himself that he would learn to read lips.

"What's going on?" House asked as Chase unlocked the door and exited.

Chase ran a hand through his short hair and responded in a low voice, "a friend died."

House didn't know what to say to that. He remained silent and watched Chase go, trailing an invisible wake of distress. He was tempted to follow, ride out those turbulent currents until the storm had passed, the waters grown still with only him privy to their depths.

"It was the executor of the Montrose estate," Cuddy informed without prompting as soon as House looked to her. "That's all I know."

H 

Mrs. Tabitha Grant. She was an older woman, with a rapid tongue, razor sharp eyes, and in charge of seeing that the last will of Emmanuel Montrose was fulfilled according to his wishes. She was a civil lawyer by training and by trade and her office was across town from PPTH, though not a long drive with the low volume of mid-day traffic. Her nicely decorated space, with quaint objects and children's drawings here and there didn't seem to match the power house of a woman that efficiently dispensed with the matter of Montrose's Last Will and Testament. It was a pretty simple document when it was all said and done. She said it had just been finalized after a modification three weeks ago. The modification didn't change much of the will. Everything was left to one person. It was just the name of the inheritor that had gone from "Zinedine René, beloved son" to "Robert Chase, son-in-heart".

Chase felt a tightening in his chest when Mrs. Grant told him this in her matter-of-fact tone. The next minute of whatever she said next fell on deaf ears. She paused in her sermon, in which she was listing what was once Montrose's and now Chase's, having noticed her audience's inattention.

"I can't," Chase said evenly once he found his voice. "I can't accept this."

Mrs. Grant removed her glasses and set them carefully down on the smaller portion of the L-shaped desk that, with the wall, confined her on three sides. "Emmanuel was not a good man, not by anyone's measure," she said with softness in opposition to her earlier tone. "His only redemption was his son. A son he let down at every turn."

Chase blinked at the unexpected insight this woman seemed to have. "You know him? Montrose?"

"I knew him, yes." Her tone and the pinched expression as she rubbed between her brows indicated that she would rather have not known him. She had no problem speaking of Emmanuel in the past tense and the only reason she would have thought to be in any way saddened by his demise was for his son. "Despite his numerous failings, and his weakness of character," she said with irritation, "he loved his son, wanted him to be happy. And he was, for maybe the first time." She dropped her hand from her face to stare intently at the bewildered man across from her. "He was happy with you."

Light-coloured brows furrowed in consternation and before he even spoke she knew he was not getting the right impression. "He's paying me for dating his son?" Why did that thought feel so dirty?

"Under most circumstances, I wouldn't put that past him. But in this case, that's not it." Mrs. Grant sat back to regard him as she continued. "This was supposed to be for Zinedine but, like you, he probably wouldn't want it. All he wanted was a father, not his money." Her head tilted just so to the right with a slight smile. "You two were a lot alike; crappy fathers and questionable mothers."

Robert didn't react to the barb thrown at his parents. He'd heard worse. In a bad mood, he'd called them worse. He loved them despite, and a part of him was a little irked at her frank description.

"You were as close to Zinedine as Emmanuel could get. You were the last person he loved. Besides, it was either you, or his questionable business partners. And trust me, those snakes don't deserve the air they breathe." Tabitha waited until she saw the slight shift to acquiescence in Robert's expression. It was faint and tinged with something uneasy. She hoped that disquiet would fade. Replacing her glasses on her face and she went back to the documents.

"So in total, this is about how much is now in your name. They're spread across several accounts, stocks, bonds and the like. The values may have changed with the interest accrued," she said as her _Cross_ pen scratched across a small piece of yellow paper which she then slid, face-down, over the desk to him. He gave her a measuring look for a moment, trying to pick out any clue as to the magnitude of the number she'd just wrote. It was like trying to get information from a brick wall. She had a perfect poker face.

Robert exhaled and flipped the paper over. It was worse than he thought.

"Yes, I'm sure," Grant stated before he could ask. "That should take care of paying back those loans, no?"

After a moment Robert dazedly responded in the affirmative. It then occurred to him. "How do you know that?"

"Background check," she informed, not the least remorseful for snooping into his business. "That's not usually the type of inheritance a mother leaves for her son." Add a lot more bite to her sarcasm and she could almost pass for a female version of House. He couldn't stop the image of House in the blouse and skirt that the brown-haired woman was currently wearing from appearing in his mind. He stifled a laugh that was too strong for the tame, though ridiculous mental picture.

"You're also receiving the mansion and everything in it, and his cars." She said with 'cars' with the disdain of a woman who didn't see what the big deal was with the beastly, gas-guzzling machines. The only thing she really cared about was the mileage, the how much space it had, and the colour.

Mrs. Grant handed him a large beige envelope and explained to him that it contained a list of the properties, some noteworthy items, the offshore accounts and the various stocks and bonds where his new, unwanted fortune resided. He peeked in and saw that there were also photos provided. He wasn't curious enough to pull them out and look at them. When he soon left he'd go home and shove the envelope in the back of a drawer wanting nothing more than to forget about it. For now he just laid it across his lap and ignored its weight.

From there Mrs. Grant quickly concluded the meeting. It was a lot to take in at once. She let him go but not before warning him. She wasn't sure how necessary this prudence was but she wouldn't put anything past Emmanuel Montrose. "He may have left you more than his material goods," she said. "He had a lot of enemies, not as many as he probably deserved but they may become your enemies now."

Chase didn't say anything, just waited for her to finish.

Not seeing a reaction from the young man Tabitha concluded saying, "He has secrets."

A solemn nod was all the response she would get from him. He left thinking, don't we all.

H 

Chase closed the door of his car, the one Zid had tried on numerous occasions to let him restore. The Chevy Monte Carlo was a classic car in this country but in its current state his car wasn't much of anything. The rust was slowly eating away at the metal where the paint had chipped off, marring the light blue colour that wasn't as shiny as the paint jobs on more recent cars. The trunk wasn't closing as well as it should and everyone in a while he heard an odd rattling when he made right turns. The car should have fallen apart ages ago to be then relegated to the final resting place of old cars, the scrap yard. This particular "classic" had been bought and kept running (though barely) by a middle aged man who'd died early, another victim of hear-disease. His wife had wanted nothing more than to get rid of the beastly machine and she took the first offer Chase had given, neither of them knowing its true value.

He put the key into the ignition, but didn't turn it. Trying to think where to go who to talk to, he paused and realized he didn't have anyone. Zid was gone, Montrose too, by suicide or so he was told though suspected foul play. He couldn't go to his friends. He'd called them since his release but he had refrained from informing them of where he'd been. That didn't mean they didn't know. They might have heard and it was probably that they were too polite or uncomfortable to let him know. With both his parents dead he couldn't go to them either and his distant relatives would be no help, they never had been before. Of his few options the strongest one, the one he wanted to give into the most was the one which told him to go back to the hospital and go see House. He wanted to tell him.

The last two days had been almost surreal. When there was nobody else around to see it, House had looked at him with some akin to concern. He'd dropped little comments, subtle hints that he was available as a friendly ears or pillow should Chase need one. What he liked more than the offers, were the expressions on House's face when he made them. Often sandwiched between and insult and a joke, but for a brief second the man was open, honest, vulnerable and that more than anything made his heart race and made him want to just grab House and hold on to him just to see the expression for a little longer.

Chase couldn't deny that he wanted to be closer to House. The man had insidiously become a figure of strength in his eyes, always constant, always House. And now, as his strength waned he felt drawn to take the offers that he worried would one day no longer come to him. He wanted to tell him, bring him in on this whole situation but he knew it was best if he kept this to himself, at least for now.

He started the car, its sound just a little off as some part of the old engine threatened to fall apart. Chase didn't even bother with a shrug. He went home dumped the envelope in his drawer and after gazing about his empty apartment he went to whom he'd felt close.

H 

The rest of the day passed and Chase didn't return to Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Six o-clock came and went without the erstwhile blond and in his office House sat. Leaning back in his chair, legs propped on his desk, it seemed he was waiting. When Dr. Wilson passed by on his way out after clearing up the files clogging his desk he paused to weigh the situation. There was a brief longing glance to the set of stairs he was heading towards. He turned and went to attend to House. Tonight it seemed like more of a chore than he sometimes felt it was.

"What are you still doing here?"

"Contemplating the universe and its intricacies. What does it look like?" He deadpanned, though somebody less familiar with his sarcasm might have thought him to be serious.

"Go home, Greg."

The use of his first name had House sitting up in his chair. Wilson mentally cursed himself. He wasn't sure precisely what he'd just let slip. Didn't know what House would read into his words.

"Something you want to get off your chest?" He swung his legs down to set his feet on the floor. For best friends, nearly lovers, they hadn't spoken much in the past two days. House considered it decompression and expected things to go back to normal, just without the undercurrent.

"Not a thing," James said locking away the unresolved ache that was his alone, his to deal with. "Where's Chase?" He hadn't seen the intensivist at all this afternoon and it was a good way to divert House's attention.

House was sharp enough to pick up on both Wilson's disguised hurt and the change in topic. He allowed both because he did like the man and so long as he wasn't doing anything too stupid, he'd leave Wilson his inane emotional solitude. "Don't know," he said in response to the question. "Went to go pick up his inheritance and never came back. You think that's his way of saying he quit?"

James ignored the second part and moved further into the office. "His father left him something?" Rowan Chase had died several months ago it seemed a little late to be collecting an inheritance.

"Not from Daddy-dearest," Greg corrected. "Montrose."

"Who's–"

"Don't know. I'm waiting for a call from some NYPD flatfoots."

James dropped the soft-leather carrying-case on one of the two chairs and grasped the backrest of the other. "I didn't know you had friends in law enforcement?"

"I don't. Chase does."

House had just finished speaking when the phone range. He picked it up swiftly knowing from the slightly different ring tone that it was a long-distance call. Wilson didn't listen to the half of the phone conversation he could hear. His eyes were drawn to the dreary evening beyond the brick and cement balcony connected to the office. It'd been pretty dark all day today and the forecast called for thunderstorms in the afternoon. So far there had been nothing but as the tone of Greg's voice reached him the weather began to come across as an auspice of trouble.

The phone was dropped carelessly on the base. As House practically leapt from his chair to grab is jacket Wilson righted the receiver to sit properly. "What's your hurry? What'd they say?"

Greg slipped on his jacket. In his haste he got his arm caught in the sleeve and there wasn't enough give in the leather for him to force it. He took it off and tried again filling Wilson in as he did. "Montrose was René's father. He's dead and he left Chase all his stuff, all one-hundred and seventy-million dollars worth of it!"

Brown eyes widened at the figure and his mouth hung open for a moment. It was shocking but it didn't seem like a bad thing. While he was thinking this House continued.

"Montrose was a mobster. There's somebody who wants what Montrose had, what Chase now has."

"Oh, shit," Wilson cursed faintly, uncharacteristic of him but excusable in these uncharacteristic circumstances.

"I agree. And it gets worse." He spun around trying to find his keys. He patted down the pockets of his jackets and visually searched his office. "That somebody, he got out of prison today, Trenton Prison." House spotted the keys on the corner of the shelf where he'd thrown his jacket that morning. When he reached for them, his haste made him clumsy and he ended up pushing them off the edge. Their plummet to the carpet was interrupted by Wilson's hand. Without a word he handed the item to House as he speedily passed him by.

"I'll check his apartment."

House assented without argument. "I'll take _The Bomber_. Maybe he needed a drink or two."

They quickly made it to the main entrance taking the stairs with House, surprisingly, able to keep up. In the short time from office to exit the rain had started. The heavy downpour seemed to promise lightning. Dr. Wilson smoothly pulled out the umbrella the meteorologist on TV had suggested he take that morning, and entered the storm without pause. He looked back and saw House brave a future cold as he stepped in to the rain without any protection, save his leather jacket.

Though his leg was pain free, House still insisted on parking his bike in the handicap spot. He started the engine, mounted and kicked back the stand. The tickle of cool rainwater trickling down his head and neck made him roll his head to one side before he put on his helmet. Tearing out of the parking lot he ignored driver safety warnings that said the road was the slickest when the rain had just begun and even more dangerous for bikes. Behind him he heard the familiar rumbled of Wilson's car. It faded as he turned left and Wilson right, drowned by the insulation of his helmet and the pounding rain.

It didn't take long to get to and search The Bomber. Chase wasn't around and bartender hadn't seen him for a long while. Wilson's trip to Chase's apartment was similarly fruitless. The door was locked. From what he could see, all the lights were off and nobody answered his repeated knocks on the door. His next door neighbour, who stepped into the corridor to see what all the noise was for, wasn't in the possession of any useful information either.

Wilson's phone rang while he was in the elevator, taking it back to the ground floor. Caller-ID let him know who it was so there was no greeting when he answered. He was growing more worried with each terrible scenario as his mind conjured up for where Chase could be.

"Find him?" the oncologist asked.

House nearly sighed. Well, that answered whether Wilson had found Chase. Who said that questions aren't answers?

"No. Check out two-two-six Province Line road." His voice was somewhat muffled by the rain and the idling bike engine. "It's the address of Montrose's Jersey place."

"How do you know that?" Province Line Road led out of the city and was known for the stately houses built into the backwoods just outside Princeton. Wilson estimated a thirty-minute trip for him to get out there from his current location. If Chase wasn't out there it would be an hour wasted.

"Does it matter?" Detective Goren had given him the address earlier over the phone and House trusted his memory enough not to write it down. "Check it out. Let me know if you find anything." He hung up. The phone was placed back in his pocket that was dry on the inside. His eyes skimmed across the moderately crowded and completely wet street. The local establishments brought out the evening and night-time crowd to kick back after a hard day of work, even in the downpour. A couple strolled past him, arms wrapped around each other, with one of them holding an umbrella to shield them from the shower. Oblivious to the rest of the world they paid no attention to the soaked man they had just passed. House wouldn't usually have noticed them either. Two men walking down the street together, intimately close, wasn't something noteworthy to him. He was a little covetous of their umbrella, but what really caught his eye was the image of their embrace played out with two different people; one, tall with dark hair and an roguish smile, the other a little shorter with blonde hair and a matching grin. He blinked and reality returned. The two strangers ended their kiss and walked on.

House took out his cell phone. He knew where he needed to go. He just didn't know where it was.

H 

**End Chapter 11**

Wow! It feels like ages since I've posted. I'll get the next chapter out for Sunday. I'm so excited about getting all the chapters posted it's pathetic. It also can't be helped. Thanks for reading!

Sagga…


	13. Chapter 12

Warning(s): Language.

The adult version of this chapter can be found at my live journal. See my profile for the link.

Chapter rating: PG-13

He hadn't cared when the rain started. He'd barely noticed. The grass pressed under is knees that had been cool and damp was now cold and wet, soaking his pants from below while the rain did the same from above. Absently, his right hand wiped away a rivulet of water that flowed a little to close to his eye, obscuring the words engraved before him. He carelessly brushed back the short hair stuck to his forehead by the water. The dishevelled peaks were quickly flattened once again against his head by the constant fall of drops. He didn't try to push them away this time. It didn't matter what he looked like. He wasn't here to be seen and there was nobody here to see him.

"Go through a hurricane and still have perfect hair, huh?" A shaky laugh hitched his breathing as he recalled Zid's hands running through his hair, endeavouring to mess it up while he tried to watch TV. After several failed attempts, Zid had proclaimed his hair to be "un-mess-up-able" as he watched it tumble back into perfect place despite his efforts.

The sentimental smile faltered. He tried to fight against it, to pull the moment to last a little longer. An involuntary shiver from the cold water running down his back marked the end of the interlude. He could no longer put off the issue that nipped at his heels and left his mind and body heavy with a fatalistic sense of helplessness.

His sleeve was completely soaked, the excess dripping off of him as he extended his arm to trace the letters etched in the smooth granite headstone. "Zinedine René," he said solemnly then added, "Montrose." Speaking for the first time in numerous years the last name Zinedine had dropped when he discovered his father's business while spending a weekend with the mobster. Rob had known of the change in name but not what the name had been. Now he did. Now he knew everything. He knew too much, had too much, wrongly inherited it all, and he was left to face it alone while so emotionally and physically exhausted.

Restful sleep continued to evade him. He knew it was only a matter of time before people began to notice. The nights spent drifting near the threshold between slumber and wakefulness, while the memories of his incarceration whispered in his ear turned the hours of darkness meant for rest, into episodes of anguish and frustration. He'd escaped, he was free and he still felt like he'd left much of himself back there. He knew intellectually that all that was left of him there were a few dark red stains, proofs of different kinds of assaults. And when in the morning he rose, still at the early hour dictated by the schedule he'd been forced to live by for three months, he would shower, blessedly alone, and with no fear of dropping the soap. There was no way that should be funny to him but he laughed anyway. One part of his mind was eager to forget it all and the other compelled him to scrub away the filth that clung heavily to every part of him that they'd touched.

Everyday he stepped out into a world he couldn't quite match. He wondered if he'd been falling apart as quickly in Trenton. It hadn't seemed like it. Then again his standard for comparison in Trenton was much lower. On the outside, in a teaching hospital with world renowned physicians, the standards were much higher and though he'd known he had a long way to go he measured up before, it was worse now. Sometimes he didn't feel human at all.

He'd been thrown back into the life of Dr. Robert Chase, only to watch it slip through his fingers, like trying to hold water in a sieve. It had been slow at first, the currents of daily life passing him by. He'd tried and was still trying to keep. He'd pretended and faked his way through the concern, the curious stares and, at each day's end, he knew he wouldn't be able to hold it together for much longer. Though they were few, the eyes that followed him still scratched deeply at his weak walls. The worry that they might see and might know haunted him almost as much as the violations themselves. Acting normal, being normal wasn't going to work. Normal meant worrying about his bill payments, and thinking about his future. The previously hazy future he'd been slowly and unenthusiastically planning out, was now a thick fog that he couldn't even begin to navigate. Any impetus he'd had to move forward was gone and that probably should have worried him. In all honesty he didn't know to care.

He didn't know what happened to Dr. Robert Chase and even in lieu of Rob's efforts he couldn't be found. Where was the arrogance that he'd patched over the insecurity? Where was the surety of his medical knowledge, the confidence that made people have confidence in him?

It was just pain –just a little hurt to add to the pile –so he'd been doing what he'd always done. He pushed it away and moved on. Well, he tried. His feet were stuck and even if he could, he didn't know where to step next. In the obfuscation of his depression the only thing he knew for sure was that if he made the wrong choice he'd be lost, more so than he was already.

The temptation to shut himself off from the world was one he fought against everyday, and each day that he didn't give in, he was cursing himself by the end of it. Sometimes it was all he could do not to give in to the part of his mind that murmured to him his tormented experience, reminding him of what had happened, what had been done, and what he'd done. He didn't think he'd ever have more to confess than he did now, but this time, like the times before and the ones to come later, he hadn't gone to church. Instead he'd come here, to a graveyard. To this one particular grave, which was not just the memory of the dead man whose name was engraved into the rigid memorial, it also served as a reminder of better, simpler times. When he'd been happy, when he'd felt almost whole.

Soaked all the way through and tired to the core, Rob came here to bask in old and broken dreams. Dreams from before Trenton made him just as broken, and made him far too old.

Zinedine René Montrose. He wanted to go back. Reverse time and snuggle back into the comfort of that time. Kneeling there in the soggy weather, there was so much to tell, and as always, there was neither enough time to tell it all, nor the right word to get it across. So he went with something simple.

"I don't hate you." His words were punctuated by a streak of lightning. Rob didn't even have the presence of mind to be startled by the crash of thunder that rumbled over the landscape several seconds later. "I don't hate you," he repeated. "I've loved and lost before." It was a recurring pattern in his life. It still hurt but at least this one had said good-bye. The others hadn't had the foresight. Either that or they just hadn't cared enough to bother. A bitter smile briefly tugged at one corner of his mouth. He took a deep breath. Water trickled past his lips, easing his parched mouth, helping the next words come out more easily. "I know you didn't…understand him but I have to do something for him…right some wrongs…put some issues to rest. Some of them are mine too I guess." He blinked away the water running in to his eyes. "Just know he wasn't all bad. You…you were the best of him –better than him."

The sky lit bright white as another bolt struck the earth. For a brief moment, it was day, harshly lit and cast with an overtone of stark grey and gloom. The rows of memorials to the deceased appeared then vanished and it was just Robert Chase and the memory of Zinedine René Montrose. The touch of cold stone against his palm made him shiver. So cold, he thought. He must be so cold. Alone, buried and forgotten, only the solidly packed earth to insulate. Robert began to shiver more violently. His heat was drawn away through his hand travelling through the granite to the earth and the cold body buried beneath him, stealing what little was left of his spirit. His eyes drifted shut as the cold arms of his last lover wrapped around him.

"Chase."

The chilly embrace began to warm. Blue-green eyes, dreary in the darkness, slowly opened.

"Chase?"

He blinked and turned his head just slightly so that he could see the lower portion of the interloper. "What are you doing here?"

"Nice to see you too." House was glad he could be so dry when he was clearly soaked. He was also glad that Chase was responding to him. When he'd arrived at the cemetery the younger man had been completely still. When he'd gotten closer he'd been relieved to see the shivers rocking his fellow's body and had given in, without thought to the compulsion to hold him, share some warmth, and ease the tremors. "You trying to catch pneumonia? Let's go." He tried to pull Chase to his feet. Chase resisted. He pulled out of the grip and stood under his own power.

"Go away, House. This doesn't concern you."

"I'm not going to let you do something stupid, Robert."

The use of his first name stung, more than the cold drops of water crashing over him. It spoke of a familiarity that he didn't have permission to use. House had just taken it, crossing clearly established boundaries. It was Chase and House, not Rob and Greg. It was a small detail but with Greg House you could never overlook even the most minor of events. Robert and not Chase meant an intimacy he couldn't at this unstable time admit to wanting.

"You don't know what the hell is going on." Chase pivoted to make his exit and walked swiftly away from House and from René's resting place. He passed rows of graves, the lamppost on the main path giving just enough illumination for him to make his way without tripping or slipping on the sodden ground. His ears managed to pick out the squishy sound of House's footsteps as they came up behind him.

"I know enough of what's going on! You're pining after somebody who was too much of a chicken-shit to stick around! He left you! Why the hell are you so devoted to him?"

"What? Are you jealous?" Chase scoffed.

House grabbed him by the shirt and pulled to slow his escape and force a confrontation. "Get it through you're pretty little head! It's not your fault! You can't save somebody that doesn't want to be saved!"

Chase struggled to break away from the hold. "What the fuck does that have to do with anything?" He tensed and gave one last hard pull and the hand slipped away. Before he could bolt House lunged, getting an arm around to his front while the other returned to his shoulder. House tried to turn him around. Chase resisted. The combination their thrashing and the slippery grass had them tumbling to the ground in a tangle of soaked limbs and raging emotions. Not deterred from his goal, House hooked a leg over Chase and with the hand latched on the front of his shirt pulled himself up and the rising Aussie down in one motion –thank you high-school wrestling team. He quickly straddled the slim waist, grasped him by the collar of his shirt and pressed him into the cold ground. Water dripped from the face above to the one below.

"Damn it! You don't owe him anything! If don't start thinking with your head instead of your love-sick heart I won't be able to save you!"

"I didn't ask to be saved!"

Greg pulled him up a little then slammed him back down. The blow was softened by the squelch of waterlogged lawn. "Then ask me!" Because you need to be saved. You can't face this by yourself. You don't have to.

His yell faded over the deathly quiet field of stone monuments.

Underneath his tight fists the stuttered rise and fall of Chase's breathing told House he wasn't helping the situation. So it was a surprise to him when the shocked, wide eyes staring up from the grass softened into an expression reflecting the abuse he'd endured and tried to bury.

Chase thought he'd never seen this man before. Dr. Gregory House, diagnostician, saved lives, saved bodies. He addressed the physical workings of human beings and only concerned himself with the mental when it was relevant to his diagnosis. So was this House's first time trying to save a soul? Did he see the heartache and pain that couldn't be fixed by a fancy chemical made in a fancy lab and realize that it mattered? Greg House saved people from disease and illness, and as hard as that might be, saving a spirit was harder. Saving one that Chase wasn't sure existed anymore, was impossible.

Nevertheless, there was something about the concern that made his breathing jumpy and uneven. There was a longing and singing from somewhere that rejoiced openly at being worthy of being saved, and being saved by Greg House. So he gave in. He asked.

Save me.

Thunder drowned out the rain and the words but Greg could still read the simple plea from the wet lips. The noise lessened and he could hear the last part of the entreaty. "Please."

House breathed again. The first new breath escape as a relieved sigh and his grip in Chase's shirt slackened for a moment before returning fiercer. The man on the ground didn't have time to react as the weight over his waist eased some and House pulled his upper body from the grass. Forgoing any warning or explanation the older man smothered his lips against the alluring pink ones he'd spent too much time thinking about. His tongue plunged into the open mouth finding the other and coaxing it into responding. Rob was quickly kissing him back with equal ferocity and a little desperation. For several seconds the heat built, the kiss went on, tongues exploring and duelling.

Greg's tensed arms held him against gravity as cool hands passed over his flexed arms and back, then trailed down to rest at his sides. Lips and tongues became acquainted, their breaths mingling together as they took in the unique smells of the other mixed with rainwater.

Rob strained up trying to get closer wanting to loose himself entirely in the kiss laced with a touch addictive and dizzying. He gave in to the attraction he'd been holding so close for quite some time he'd mistaken as jut respect and admiration. The inkling that the emotion ran deeper than that had been there, but all he'd known for certain was that it was precious and when he was ready he'd face it, accept it, and tell him. He should have known that Greg House didn't go by anybody's schedule.

Suddenly it was over. The hands twisted in his shirt released and he fell back into the waterlogged grass, loosing contact with the rain-slicked lips he wanted so direly. The weight and warmth over him disappeared as well leaving him totally exposed to the continued rain from the pure, black sky.

A hand materialized above him. Chase followed the hand to the arm and back to the body standing over him. "Come on," he thought he heard. "Time to get out of the rain," House said with no sarcasm, no bite. When finally Chase gave him his hand House helped to pull him up. He nodded towards the parking lot and his bike reluctantly letting go. Chase turned and went off first, House following a second later to walk beside but a little back to keep his eyes on the dazed young man. He grabbed Chase by the arm to stop him from heading to wherever his car was parked and handed him the black helmet he'd dropped in his haste when he'd arrived.

"You're not driving."

Chase took the helmet and stared at it for a moment. He brushed the droplets off the visor but they collected quickly again. He handed it back to House. "You'll need it to see in the rain," he told the older man. House conceded that and took back the helmet Chase held out to him. He mounted the bike first and started the engine. There was a second of hesitation but Chase climbed on too and grasped House at his sides to hold on. House corrected the hold, removing the hands and pulling until the arms were wrapped tightly around him. He held them there even after Chase took hold. He cradled the back of the cold hands in a vaguely comforting gesture and then let go to take hold of the bike handles and drive them away.

H 

"I found him," House said quietly in to the phone. "Yeah, he's fine. Go home." Hearing the response he hung up. He opened the small cabinet in the washroom to retrieve some towels and returned to the living room where Chase was still standing near the door. "You don't have to stand there. I do own the rest of the apartment too." He handed the soaked young man a towel, keeping one for himself.

"Didn't want to track water everywhere," Chase mumbled. For a moment their eyes met, two different shades of blue. Iris's tinged with a bit of green, Chase's eyes searched House's for a sign of what was to happen next. He read the bright azure eyes and discovered the older man had no idea what was to come. It shouldn't have made him feel so amused, House being unsure, but it rarely happened. Chase looked away first, feeling a little lighter but no less lost. He wiped his face with the towel then moved up to his hair. He was less than half there, trying as he was to figure out if it was okay to touch someone again and remind himself what it was supposed to feel like.

House must have had a problem with the job he was doing drying his hair –though he'd never had any complaints before –because a moment later his hands were batted away from his own head and replaced with House's.

"What are you-"

"You're a million miles away," House said to justify his actions. He rubbed vigorously. He didn't have a problem with how Chase was drying his hair, he just needed a reason to touch him after being so frantic to find him.

When he pulled the towel away the blonde hair was still dark with water but no longer dripping. Locks of the short hair stood at a mess of different angles. House avoided Chase's eyes and paid attention instead to the spiked hair. He made a half-hearted attempt at styling it in to an acceptable do. He failed and could only shrug. "I'm sure nobody will mind. You can tell them it's a…" he trailed off as Chase's hand reached up to lightly touch his. He was ensnared by the eyes staring intently up at him. "…a Gregory House original," he finished belatedly.

No man should be that pretty, was House's last thought before he was being pulled down. He let Chase set the pace for this kiss. It was slower, more cautious but Greg suspected highly that passion was just below the surface. He thought about coaxing it out but this was nice.

Their tongues were dancing, not duelling. The urgency and desperation had faded from both of them and the kiss could continue calmly, safely, for a while. Only until the embers were stoked enough to flame. That's when Greg pulled back. Chase didn't let him go far so it was against the soft lips that House made his case.

"Uh…" he swallowed with difficulty. Damn, this kid knew how to kiss. He looked forward to exploring the depths of his talent. He just wasn't sure today was the right day. Now to get his brain cells to fire in the right order. "Mmm," he was all he could manage with Chase pressing his lips insistently against his. Pushing a little on Chase's shoulder House tried again. "We should wait. You're soaked." That wasn't precisely what he was trying to get out.

Chase paused. He rocked his weight back so that his feet were flat to the floor again. That put him inches shorter than House and standing so close to him, he had to tilt his head up further than usual to meet his eyes.

"Are you kidding?" He licked his lips, tasting House there. It was such an erotic little motion that House nearly gave in. Chase decided to play it off lightly. He didn't want to reveal the true depth of what he wanted. Chase's next words wouldn't help House's resolve to refuse the request in both the young man's eyes and the in his kiss. "You don't want to get laid because you're worried I might get a cold?"

That didn't sound right to House either. He still didn't relent. His hands rubbed up and down Chase's arms, then all the way up so that he could gently grasp his face. He leaned forward and kissed him, hot and heavy and far too short.

"I'm sure I have something that should fit you," House told him voice dim with arousal and internal conflict. He gave a parting brush of his thumb across a shapely lower lip before letting go and heading to his bedroom.

Chase breathed heavily for a second or two to regain a semblance of equilibrium. That tickle of sensation, pins and needles over cool damp skin replaced the numbness. He'd been so long and so deeply deadened that he was unprepared for the return of undisguised and unmitigated emotion. It faintly hurt, like the return of heat to a frozen extremity. The blood racing through his vessels carried the warmth of lust and arousal that he hadn't felt in so long. Sexual dysfunction was a side effect to the trauma of rape. That he hadn't been able to touch himself or have a thought that was more than distantly sexual without feeling ill was to be expected. That House's touch could take it away, make him better, well that was unexpected and now heavily desired, maybe more than the man himself. That's what held him back, cooling the errant flames. Did he really want to use House just so that he could feel better? He looked down at the small rug at the entrance on which he still stood. It didn't have any answers.

Chase followed through the unfamiliar corridor of House's apartment. Probably would have been interested in House's abode if he weren't otherwise distracted.

Greg had already found a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and handed them to the younger man once he walked in. Chase took them without words, dropped them on the edge of the bed and began to strip. His mind had skipped over the suggestion of privacy, a freedom he was still getting used to having after prison. He was slipping the wet shirt from his shoulders when he felt eyes on him. He raised his to find another set of blue ones tracing the contours of his chest. He tilted his head a little in surprise, though the expression didn't appear as more than a blink on his face. He always thought his looks would mean nothing against House and his brain. More and more he was seeing the brilliant doctor was just as much a man as any man.

"What happened?"

Chase glanced down, finding the scar on the lower left side of his abdomen that House had focused on. "A…fight." The permanent reminder of that assault in the recreation area of the prison had the arousal cooling and it was a touch that brought him back to the here and now.

A large, talented hand gently outlined the narrow scar, another token from Trenton. It was raised and had that shine of fairly new skin that hadn't healed well. "Didn't hit anything important, did they?" His question was accompanied by his other hand settling on the trim hip.

Breath fell past his lips. His reply was barely audible. "No." His arms hung limply at his sides. The shadows of the hands that held him down and violated him at the prison were close. They ghosted over his skin and left him frozen in remembered terror. His saturated shirt still hung from his fingers, though his mind had forgotten about it the second the long fingers had touched him.

"We shouldn't do this," House told him.

Chase shook his head. He scoured his mind for the right words. The hands inching around to caress his back pushed away the old ones that had dirtied him before. The presence so warm and near to him, made thinking difficult. All he wanted was to stay in his embrace and remember what it was like to be close to another person without fear.

The proximity was already doing things to House. They'd barely done anything and he wanted to throw Chase down and explore the tempting body. He knew he shouldn't but even the constant cold of his soggy jeans didn't temper his arousal. "This is a bad idea."

Chase agreed. "I'm full of them."

House's arousal jumped in response, wanting badly to know and explore all those ideas. Altar boy turned bad boy, cliché but such a major turn on.

The distance between there lips couldn't be measured on any appreciable scale anymore. Desire was thick in the room, suffocating good senses, strangling it, cheering at its demise and pushing the two men closer together.

"You're not ready," the words struggled out.

"I need this. I need you." His stomach clenched. He wasn't sure where exactly that came from but once it was said he knew it was true. More than worrying about its source, he worried that such a confession could easily be thrown back at him. This was dangerous and he still couldn't stop himself. "I want it to be okay again. I-" He closed his eyes. "Save me."

House understood the tacit plea. While his thinking brain protested, the rest of him compelled action. He gave in.

He'd tried. Nobody can say that he didn't. But who could be noble in the face of all that?

H 

He hated that short hair. It was his weakness. Why did that sound familiar? He couldn't be bothered to pull out the obscure reference buried somewhere in the back of his crowded mind. Greg shrugged minutely to himself and continued to stare at the blank TV. Post-sex thinking was always pretty simple. On this occasion it was the long list of why he shouldn't have done what he just did that finally appeared. Would have been useful two hours ago!

He let his head drop back to the back of the black leather sofa. His left hand ran over the creases in the well-used leather. He compared it to the warm damp skin of Chase in the throws of orgasm.

"Ugh." House groaned at his pathetic thoughts. It was just sex; sex with a co-worker, worse –he sighed –sex with an underling. Damn it! Sex with Chase, Robert Chase, and twenty years his junior! There was half the alphabet between their generations. This was all kinds of wrong. There were probably volumes of law books and biblical scriptures that said this was a bad idea and why. Combine that with the psyche books about PTSD and rape victims, and he was the worst kind of bastard. Nothing new really.

Besides, he'd never put that much faith in books of, well, faith. After two thousand years or more, depending on what religion is your flavour, it was time for a new version –Holy Bible 2.0. And psyche? Well that whole thing was a bit iffy in his opinion, too soft to be fact. As for the unwritten rules of work-place interactions, well he'd crossed those lines ages ago. While keeping himself directly separate from the issues of his fellows and his friends –maybe that should be friend, singular –he was always quick to step in and nudge somebody this way or that, depending on the doom he saw around the corner or how amusing and just piteous the result might be. Catch his interest and you weren't safe. Chase, Foreman and Cameron had figured that out.

So it wasn't a big deal. Chase was the guy at the hospital. Rob was the guy in his bed. Capice?

"Hey."

Okay, so Rob was the guy standing at the junction of the corridor and the living room.

"Can I get a glass of water?" Chase asked uncertain of whether he was still welcomed here.

"Sure," House replied neutrally. He started to get up but Chase waved him back down.

"I'll get it. Where are your glasses?"

House followed his progress to the kitchen. "Next to the cabinet over the sink." Chase was naked from the waist up and barefoot. The pair of short House had given him hung low on his hips reminding House why he'd given in and had sex with the man. Even a straight man would tap that. Chase was a primo piece of ass.

Shit. House let his head tilt to the ceiling. If this was how a free man was thinking what about a guy in prison surrounded by nothing but ugly, dirty thugs and not a female in sight.

He also noticed that Chase was a little thinner than he expected. The changes in his body were hidden during the day by his clothing but without them it was obvious that Chase hadn't taken well to prison food. Who would?

"You want anything?"

"Beer in the fridge." He turned on his TV needing the noisy diversion.

A beer appeared in his line of vision a few seconds later. He took it. Chase sat on the couch, on the other side but not all the way to the end. It put just enough distance between them.

He twisted the top off and slid his eyes to the side while he took a swig. Chase was drinking his water pretty quickly.

"Didn't get enough water earlier?" House asked in reference to the rain that had drenched them. Chase didn't pause. The only response House got was a brief grunt.

Chase sat the empty glass on the coffee table when he was done. The only sounds came from the television. House was rapidly flipping through the numerous channels, unable to settle on any particular program. Chase had the sinking feeling that like those programs he wouldn't be able to keep House's interest for very long either. That cold feeling was creeping over him again, even though his wet clothes were in pile in the bedroom.

When he'd woken up and found that he was alone in the bed, the sheets next to him cooled to ambient temperature, he'd been nervous. Though the similarity was very vague, he recalled waking, or coming back to himself after assaults in Trenton. The pain of waking, of having to clean himself up and tend as best he could to any damage, it made him shiver in disgust and revulsion. Strangely the one he hated the most was himself. Somebody else would have found a way to escape. They would have fought harder. A stronger person would have let Yarrow die. Face buried in House's cool pillow that still carried the other man's scent Rob had waited. The emotion would pass.

He had to hold himself together for just a little longer. He had to not care for just a little longer, keep this hurt locked away until it was safe to let go. He didn't know if he could. After holding all his demons so close he didn't know how they could not be a part of his definition. He could say to himself that nothing mattered –it seemed much easier a choice –but then what about House? He couldn't not care and be with someone, could he? The weight of his troubles was nearly enough to drown him and he couldn't be helped if he couldn't let go. To do that he had to admit there was something there that mattered, because good things float, things that don't matter float away, and he could feel himself sinking.

He took a shuddering breath and whispered, begged, "save me." Finally it had passed and his chest didn't feel as tight, the bed sheets weren't so cold, he wasn't quite as dirty.

When he'd looked at the clock and saw that it was only nine-twenty-one he relaxed a little more. It was too early to be going to bed, so he slipped on the shorts, cleaned himself off a little, though it appeared House had done most of that while he'd been out, and padded cautiously to the living room.

Now seated next to the man Chase didn't really want to examine what he felt. All he knew was that he didn't want this to be a one-time thing. He also knew that he didn't have anything to offer that House couldn't get elsewhere. Why would anyone stay?

"Why did you come looking for me?" Chase asked. His eyes remained on the television screen though he wasn't actually seeing the images that flashed by. He felt House shift a little and knew the man was looking directly at him. Chase suppressed a shiver, feeling more exposed than the lack of shirt warranted.

"You didn't come back."

In both their ears they could hear an echo of a deeper sentiment.

"I called the NYPD cops and they told me about Montrose…and about Yarrow." Chase had been still before but at the mention of Yarrow, he was frozen. House had expected such a reaction and waited until Chase was breathing again before telling him the rest. "He's been released."

"When?"

"Earlier today."

Chase nodded and tried to swallow. His stomach was rolling, churning with unrest and memories that the man's name brought to the surface. He could feel the burn in his backside. He knew that it had been House and that House wasn't like Yarrow but his unconscious mind and stomach didn't seem to find the distinction. The residual discomfort that he usually enjoyed as a reminder of previous passion, now only reminded him of a dark prison and the repugnance of the events that had taken place there.

Chase?

Somebody was calling his name.

"Rob?"

All he could do was nod. He wasn't sure what exactly a nod would convey. Yes, Robert was his name. It was all the response he could manage.

He took a breath and tried to swallow. He got up and went to the washroom. From the living room, House waited expecting –yes, there it was. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before going to the washroom where he found Chase bent over the toilet spitting out the last remnants of the water his stomach had just rejected. When he thought it was over House helped the shivering man to his feet, helped rinse out his mouth, then helped him in to bed.

"I have to go," Chase protested weakly, eyes glassy and unfocussed.

House didn't bother to respond. Chase was settled in on his side facing in towards the center of the bed. His eyes were open and didn't show signs of closing.

"Get some rest." He moved to leave but a hand around his wrist stopped him. Only somewhat reluctantly he lay down. Chase didn't move any closer to him. He wasn't going to push his luck. It turned out he wouldn't have to, because after a minute House pulled him closer and Chase went willingly. He figured they'd been as close as two people could be and there was no point being coy or shy about it now. House also hoped that this would convey, without him actually having to say it, that he wasn't going anywhere and that he didn't intend for this to be a one-time event. He had offered a shoulder to cry on and tonight he was offering more.

Eventually the older of the two fell into sleep. Hours later, the other would follow to get a few short hours of rest.

H 

**End Chapter 12**

Sagga…


	14. Chapter 13

Warning(s): Violence. Language

Chapter rating PG-13

**Chapter 13**

The department dynamics were a little off the next day. Chase was quiet and tired, Foreman was annoyed by something, Cameron was suspicious, and House was giving strange looks; which were the cause of Cameron's suspicion. Foreman's unrest stemmed from an early-morning argument he had with his girlfriend, so half of his mind was still back there. Chase was nearly catatonic. Cameron seemed to be the only one picking up on the strange way House was acting. It was nothing drastic but she was quite astute when it came to behaviour, especially that of her co-workers.

At first she thought it was just concern on House's part because of Chase. It was becoming more and more apparent that he wasn't getting enough rest, if any. She already knew that House liked Chase, so the attention their boss paid him was not a surprise. She wasn't sure how much of it was reciprocated but she could have brushed it all off, if not for the softness that briefly touched his eyes when they shifted to Chase. She recognised the look because she had wished, and to an extent still did wish for that expression when he looked at her. Her suspicion was growing but she was willing to chalk it up as simple concern, and as rare as it might have been coming from House, it wasn't a big deal. The patient file that Cuddy breezed in and handed to House who was spending much more time than usual hanging around the conference room, managed to collect the attention of the four doctors for a little while.

"White male. Sixty-four years young…and no pulse." Yes, that caught everyone's attention. Even Chase managed to raise his head enough to get his chin off his chest.

"Sounds like a case for the morgue," Foreman suggested with raised brows.

"Foreman, are you discriminating on the basis of vitals? Am I going to have to send you back for more sensitivity training? 'Sides, this wouldn't be the first living-challenged patient we've had. And this one has a pulse at his carotid and everywhere else there should be one, except his wrist." The retort was directed at Foreman but after a glance down House's eyes shifted to Chase again, and Cameron lost her focus on the case. She looked to Chase who was staring sleepily up the older man, through his lashes. He looked too tired to be aware of what he was doing. Cameron turned her gaze back to House, who quickly moved on to the differential. Throughout it Cameron kept her eyes on him, now thinking that there was more between House and Chase than just concern.

House was endeavouring not to treat Chase any differently than he usually would have and he succeeded. The barb at the sleepy man's diagnosis was in perfect tune. Chase didn't respond with his usual sass but that could easily be attributed to his apparent insomnia. What House wasn't so successful in masking were the glances in Chase's direction. Couldn't have been more than a few extra, and a second longer than normal but Cameron was already suspicious so the slips were obvious to her.

"ESR," House ordered, his back to his fellows and eyes on the list of symptoms, which included temporal headache, back pain, hydronephrosis, myalgia, jaw claudication. Chase's suggestion of polymyalgia rheumatica was a good one but since his daddy was a rheumatologist he had an unfair advantage. And he like his idea better. "If I'm right like I usually am, then it'll be elevated. Do another CBC too –and a smear. In the meantime, Cameron, start him on prednisone, one milligram for each kilo."

"I think you're jumping to conclusions," Foreman said, sceptical as always. "You can't use blindness as a symptom when the man's been blind for years from detached retinas. And that was trauma related."

"He has temporal headaches though," Chase said weakly, in support of House's diagnosis of giant cell arteritis. "And an aortic aneurysm would explain the lower back pain and the hydronephrosis"

"So would age," Cameron said absently, her narrowed eyes more focused on the silent interaction between House and Chase. "He could just have rheumatoid arthritis. It could also be Takayasu's."

"He can't be both an old man and a young woman. You have to pick one," House countered, knowing that their patient didn't fit the profile for a person with Cameron's latter suggestion.

"The headache, the myalgia, the claudication, and if Chase is right, the aortic aneurysm makes it a long list of arterial involvement. You can't just jump to a diagnosis when the patient is missing all the ophthalmologic symptoms."

"There is the arteritis part of giant cell arteritis, in case you missed it. Schedule him for an angiogram too. Get him on the steroids first."

The two male fellows pulled their weary bodies from their respective chairs and left for the lab. Cameron hung back.

"You can't just put him on high-dose corticosteroids because you have a hunch. You could make his situation worse."

"Well, I'm not going to make him any blinder."

"What's going on?"

"You tell me." House reread the symptoms scrawled on the whiteboard, presenting his back to the brunette.

"What's going on with Chase? He looks terrible-"

"No, that's just his clothing," House spoke over Cameron.

"-and you've been staring at him all morning."

Tired of her argument already House tapped the white board with a knuckle. "Hello? Patient who needs some steroids." He went back to his mental differential. The presentation was classic GCA, except for the no failing vision part, but the guy was already blind.

Eventually the young woman got the hint and left. House slid his eyes to the right to watch her exit, quickly sliding them back to the whiteboard when Cameron glanced back at him. He sighed up at the ceiling when she was gone and sat down. His hand rubbed idly at his right thigh trying to ease the ache.

He assumed it was just muscle strain after all the activities of last night –fun activities but perhaps a bit too much for his leg. It was either strain, or the ketamine treatment wasn't holding. He'd read the articles. He knew the pain could come back. A loud aggravated huff pushed past his lips. He had enough to worry about. He didn't need a snoopy Cameron too. House tilted his head a little to the left, replaying her tone and her words.

Maybe 'snoopy' wasn't the right word. Maybe 'jealous' was more on target.

Terrific.

H 

"Didn't sleep much last night?" Foreman said in more of an accusing manner than a questioning one as he kept Chase from adding the wrong solvent to the test he was trying to run. Dull eyes watched as the plastic bottle was removed from his hand and replaced with a different one. He read the label.

"Oh. Thanks." Chase continued the procedure, his potential screw up making him more diligent.

"Are you okay?"

"Peachy," he answered shortly. "What about you? Girlfriend problems?"

"How'd you guess," Foreman answered sarcastically from his workbench. It was good to be able to argue and just shoot the breeze. Cameron was too touchy-feely and House was too acerbic. Despite how much MTV he watched, House was too old. He just couldn't relate. Chase was just as young and, when it came to relationships, just as stupid as he was. They could complain, commiserate, argue and the next day all was forgotten, or forgiven, or whatever. It wasn't an issue.

"Didn't I say something about the two of you? Something along the lines of two bulls in a relationship."

"You haven't even met her. And you never will."

"I don't need to meet her. I know the type you like. Strong willed, smart, arrogant, practically a female version of you."

"Yeah well, I thought I knew your type too. Just didn't figure House fit in the category."

Chase didn't even bother asking how Foreman figured it out. He was the one that was half-asleep. For all he knew he'd been making googly-eyes at House all morning.

"Neither did I," Chase said honestly. He wasn't sure when his admiration turned to attraction or how long he'd been hiding it from himself. He didn't see any point in trying to hide it from Foreman. Though he suspected to garner a lot of ribbing from the neurologist, he didn't expect anything particularly harsh. Foreman was judgemental, but when things weren't going to make the situation worse, he was pretty slack. Yeah, Eric was surprisingly easy-going, for an uptight-tightwad.

"You think Cameron figured it out?"

"Half-asleep remember," Chase said pointing to himself. "You're probably in better condition to gauge her at the moment. Besides she doesn't like House anymore."

"What makes you so sure?" Foreman careful measured out the right amount of an activator he required and poured it into a test tube.

"She said so."

"And women always say what they mean, right?"

Chase conceded the point.

"Looks like we're going to figure this out right now."

Chase turned to look at Foreman. The dark-skinned man nodded in the direction of the labs glass doors.

"Here she comes."

Chase looked through the glass doors and read her expression. "Terrific."

The two men made the best use of their last few seconds of peace before Cameron stormed in. Neither of them greeted her and she went directly to Chase.

"Are you sleeping with House?"

"Is that any of your business?" Chase measured out the right amount of his solution into a small test tube and slipped it into the centrifuge. From his stool Foreman watched surreptitiously the exchange between his colleagues. He would remain quiet, not wanting to be drawn into the path of hurricane Allison.

"I just don't think either of you are ready for a relationship. You'll just end up hurting each other."

"Your concerns are duly noted." Chase wasn't even sure he'd call the thing between him and House a relationship. They'd both avoided talking about anything serious that morning. After convincing House that he'd be fine he called a cab to take him to the cemetery where his car had been left overnight, driven home to shower and change, and then came to work, where things were nearly like they always were.

"What happened to 'House doesn't like anybody and nobody likes House'?" Cameron asked with her arms folded. Those were Chase's exact words from nearly a year ago.

"I was wrong." Chase swivelled on the lab stool to face her directly. "What happened to 'I'm over him'?" he paraphrased.

Allison just shook her head, a vague expression of disgust marring her otherwise lovely face. She turned and left.

"Everybody lies," Foreman said. Chase didn't respond. He went back to his work, annoyed with Cameron and her petty drama. He didn't want to hurt her. That wasn't his intention. But he couldn't really concern himself with her at the moment. He had bigger problems than an angry female.

Some of those problems would accost him later that day.

H 

It wasn't a big deal. That's what House kept telling himself. Wilson was making a Martian volcano out of a nano-dot. Just because Wilson was sitting silently next to him while they watched _General Hospital_ on the television in the Radiology waiting room, didn't mean he wasn't still annoyed. The waves of unrest flowing off his friend were enough to make House itchy. He was still waiting for Wilson to ask specifically about what happened with Chase last night. Either he didn't care, which was highly unlikely, or he'd already figured it out, clever Jimmy that he was.

"Are you sure he's ready? You sure about him?" James finally asked during a commercial break.

House shrugged.

"I mean… he's a lot younger than you. He may have different goals. He may not even plan on staying here when his fellowship is over."

"Oh, he's staying," Greg said certainly. He wasn't yet sure how he was going to pull that off. He'd tell Cuddy he wanted to keep Chase, and Cuddy would figure it out.

Wilson sat back in his chair for a moment, watching the commercial for the day-time talk show '_Maury_'. The content of the fifteen-second ad surprised him. He'd always thought Maury was more like_ Oprah_ or at least _Montel_. This make-over, weight loss, boot camp stuff looked more like _Springer_.

"Have you noticed that _Maury_ is like a somewhat more respectable version of _Jerry Springer_?"

James shook his head astonished that they'd been thinking the same thing.

House took his head-shake as a negative. "Guess you don't watch enough daytime-TV."

"People who work aren't supposed to know much about daytime-TV," Wilson countered.

"You can record it. What do you think they made TiVo for?"

"TiVo is wasted on daytime-TV," a man, with a newspaper in hand, said as he walked by.

"I agree with him."

"Who the hell is he? His opinion doesn't count," House said irksomely.

James sighed and brought the discussion back to his original topic. "All I'm saying is that you should be careful. He's hurt. He's young. He has a lot of decisions-"

"Why is it that when it comes to me and Chase you're always so eager for the role of devil's advocate?" House interrupted and skewered his friend with an unwavering gaze. "You wanted me to fire him after he went to Vogler. You thought he'd turn on me when he went to the board hearing about his misdiagnosis. And now this."

Wilson thought about responding but there were too many ears around to pick up this private conversation. He just settled with, "You should have fired him. Both times." Not that he hated Chase and wanted the man to loose his job. It was the principle of the matter and Greg's subsequent actions that made him nervous.

"He made a mistake. One that I know he'll never make again. As for Vogler," House shrugged. "He did what anybody would have done; saved his job."

"You're always making excuses for him."

"Aw! Don't pout Jimmy. I love you more." House pushed out his lower lip and gave Wilson his best puppy dog eyes.

"Forget it." The oncologist got up and left. He didn't want to get into something he didn't quite understand himself. When he looked at Chase, there was an attraction –the man was handsome, no arguing that –and there was unease. Not because of anything the boy had done in particular. It was House. House had a weakness or something for the blond Australian that Wilson had noticed a while ago. He never thought it would come this far, but it had and it continued to worried him.

Even from as early as the interview Wilson knew that to House, Chase stood out from the other applicants. What only he and nobody else seemed to see was the danger this fascination posed. If Chase was destructive, clever, and malicious enough, and if House was smitten and distracted enough, Chase could ruin him –they could ruin each other. House's growing curiosity about Chase and his life had put Wilson on edge long before today. This, in combination with his failed marriage, had pushed the oncologist to seek solace at a bar not too far from the hospital, and coincidentally near a grocery store that Dr. Chase frequented. That was how Chase ended up finding, and taking care of him that night months ago.

In his drunken haze of misdirected anger, he'd decided to find out what House thought was so special about the intensivist. The incident had ended badly, but Wilson had come away with greater knowledge about the young doctor, and some insight into the attraction of the wounded man that went beyond his physical appearance. He also took away more than a little guilt about trying to force himself on someone who'd been trying to take care of him. He and Chase became closer and his attraction had grown. What originally started as a drunken plot, evolved into friendship and lust, lust that could never be acted on thanks to Chase's former boyfriend. However, the change between him and Chase had House splitting the little bit of extra attention he'd directed on Chase, back to him. That had been both annoying and also comforting, and things had been okay –he had both Chase and House. Then everything happened, and Wilson didn't have either.

Back in the Radiology waiting room House didn't move until his show was over. Even then he was tempted to ignore whatever Wilson's problem was and watch the next program. The next program turned out to be _The View_ and that was where he drew the line. He left following the same path Wilson had taken fifteen minutes earlier. Now he could figure out what was going on in Jimmy's overcomplicated psyche.

He didn't think it was that Jimmy didn't like Rob. He couldn't possibly blame Chase for him almost loosing his job when Vogler was here. Vogler was after the diagnostics department, the head of the department in particular. He was the one who had to step in line and, in the end, couldn't. Chase was an easier target for Wilson. He was Jimmy's best friend and at the time, Chase was easily made the bad guy. Firing him when he just fought for his job the way House wanted him to do just wasn't right in his opinion. He'd done more than the other two had to keep their jobs. Foreman coasted by on his brains and generally staying below the radar; same for Cameron. Chase had just made a mistake and was the odd man out. He'd told Cameron he wanted Chase to fight for his job. He had, and then House had tortured him for a month. He wasn't punishing Chase's initiative, just his method, because that was what House wanted from him.

It had been very apparent in his interview with the young doctor that he was smart and his record was glowing so brightly it practically blinded him. What he liked about Chase more than the others with similar applications, was that Chase was very…calm; didn't get riled up by House's insults or jokes. He even laughed at some, though that might just have been some flattering ploy to get the job. What hadn't been was the phone call from the famous, Dr. Rowan Chase the day before, which the younger Chase clearly hadn't know about.

"I've heard a great deal about you," the man had started. "My son has an interview for a position in your department coming up. I'd be very appreciative if you were to give him the position. I know he has his heart set on working for you."

The rest of the short conversation had been pretty standard with House throwing ill-disguised taunts, and Chase Sr. deflecting them with the patience and skill of a Zen master.

So House had hired the young, and still younger-looking, doctor. Not as a favour to Rowan Chase but because of Rowan Chase. The man said he knew a great deal about him. A smart guy like Rowan would have figured out his feelings about nepotism. So a call to him was more likely to make sure Robert didn't get the job than ensure that he did.

Chase Jr. had travelled half-way around the world to escape his father's reputation and become a doctor in his own right. And House was far too familiar with fathers trying to push their son in the direction they chose not to feel something for Chase's plight. So, he hired the son of Rowan Chase. Take that, Dad!

The only problem he'd had with Chase was that he wouldn't fight. Not unless really pushed. He couldn't mould the young man into a super-doctor if he didn't change that. So he'd pushed, twisted and yelled until he had. Chase argued more with him now than he used to, and he fought for what he wanted. House had succeeded, and he lost. René had been right. Now however, House had a chance to get back what he'd lost and more.

H 

The afternoon meant clinic duty for Chase and that was just fine by him. On his way back from the lab he'd run in to Dr. Wilson. The frosty greeting he was given puzzled him. He knew it had to do with House, and with what happened last night. He didn't know whether House had given any details, but his brief contact with Dr. Wilson left him nervous and feeling as though he should apologize. He wasn't entirely sure for what he'd be apologizing. He figured that Wilson was just worried about House being with him. Anybody would be. He wasn't the most stable of persons right now, and House didn't appear they type to coddle or cuddle. Chase paused, stopped walking in the middle of the corridor nearly making the doctor behind him, also attending to clinic patients, crash in to him. The other doctor being in such a hurry, barely had enough time to through an annoyed look before he moved on. Chase didn't even notice. He was still thinking about the man he'd slept with the night before.

That morning Chase had awoken at his usual time, he could tell by the cast of the sun through the curtains. He was on his back and he felt a weight over his chest. He looked down and found an arm thrown over him, an arm that belonged to the man making the sleeping noises nest to him. At his right saw House sleeping peacefully, if a little noisily. With his face turned towards his bed partner House was dead to the world. The soft snoring sounds exited the partially open mouth and slack lips. He looked so peaceful Chase hadn't been able to help a sleepy smile. He shifted a little and the arm hand that had been slack grasped at him, holding him, keeping them close. House had mumbled something unintelligible and Chase had given him a short kiss before slipping out from the bed and the comforting embrace.

So, no one would have pegged House as a cuddler but he had been. Only for a few, too brief hours but to him it meant a lot. That it possibly may never happen again meant it was all the more precious. They hadn't said much that morning and nothing in the few sleep heavy words House had directed at him held any hidden message about how the other man felt. Chase didn't know where they stood and he wasn't feeling up to broaching the topic, especially not after seeing Wilson. If House was in a similar mood then he wasn't eager to see him. The clinic was as good a place to hide as any other and the general lack of mental exertion left him still able to ride the comfortable level of calm that he'd managed to hang on to.

"Just make sure she gets some rest and lots of fluids. She'll be fine in a day or two." Chase led the first-time father and his two-year old girl out of the exam room. The little girl had a cold, not even a bad one but the father had worried, as parents tend to do –especially when it was the parent who wasn't usually the one to take care of the child. With the little girl's mother away on business all responsibilities fell to Daddy and he'd just overreacted a bit. Chase had checked that there was no neck-pain so it wasn't meningitis. It was more than likely she just picked it up from one of the other kids at her preschool. He'd spent nearly half an hour just trying to explain that to Mr. Brooks. Now that he was sure the father wasn't going to call 911 if the little girl coughed he was going to let them go.

Mr. Brooks thanked him with all the gratitude of a man whose child had just been saved from a life-threatening illness. He knew he wasn't deserving of such gratitude so he just smiled and nodded. He threw a wink to the little red-haired girl who smiled and waved back at him.

"Doctor Chase, you have a man in room two who asked specifically to see you. He said that you're friends. It's…" the dark hair woman searched for the name in the file, "…uh, Alexander Cass."

"Can't say I recognize the name." He accepted the file anyway and proceeded to room two while skimming the few notes scribbled in by one of the rushed nurses. He'd just gotten his hand on the doorknob when a voice called him.

"Dr. Chase! A moment of your time please," House began. It was clear by the tone of his voice he had something to say, that he'd reach some conclusion he felt the need to share with the other doctor.

Chase knew that it had to do with what happened the night before and was eager to escape. "Can't, have a patient." He ducked into the exam room. House followed.

"This will only take a minute. I just wanted to know if you liked monster trucks."

Chase was stunned. He stood there, back to the patient for a few long seconds as he tried to read into House's words. "Monster Trucks?"

"Y'know, those big trucks with the big wheel and the big engines crushing the smaller cars. It's useless destruction, but endlessly entertaining."

"Monster Trucks, like you took Cameron? Like a date?"

"With Cameron it wasn't a date. Is that what she told everyone?"

"Well…no." She actually hadn't said much about it except that she'd never been to see monster trucks before. "So you're not asking me on a date?" Chase asked. The date probably would have come before the sex for most people.

"I didn't say that."

"Excuse me…" The third voice reminded both men that their issues took a back seat while there were at work. Chase quickly turned to face the man who'd been waiting. He was half-way turned when the voice triggered a memory, actually memories, all of them bad. House saw just a flash of the shock in Chase's eyes before he'd turned completely.

"So, you ridin' with him now?" The man was white, tall but not that tall. Well built muscles and probably a few scars hidden underneath his expensive tailored suit. The dark material clung in a flattering manner over the early-forties man but that was about all the praise one could honestly direct at him. His haircut was nothing spectacular, the whole man was nothing spectacular, except that he carried himself with such an air of confidence and menace that House quickly figured out who he was.

"What are you doing here?" Chase asked. His voice was level but laced with something edgy.

The man didn't respond to Chase's inquiry. He looked to the older man by the door. "This must be Doctor House. You have quite the history."

"At least mine's not a criminal history," House countered and watched with contentment as the man's expression darkened. Chase didn't see the humour apparently because he cut the chitchat.

"What the hell do you want?" He asked with a raised voice, unconcerned with the attention he might draw from those in the clinic.

"Just wanted to see your pretty face. Zinedine was right. How did he put it?" Yarrow casually reached in to the breast pocket of his suit and pulled out a letter that was worn and slightly rumpled, as though somebody had held it and read it over many times. From memory he quoted. "'I touch him and all my thoughts are there, with him and all that's important is the moment'.'" The ex-con unfolded the paper and read directly from the private message. "He told me he loved me. You have no idea how good that feels."

"Give me that!" Chase reached for the letter. Yarrow pulled it out of his reach and Chase didn't want to get any closer to the other criminal that necessary. It had to be the one Zid had written to his father. Montrose had told him it had been lost. It appeared now that it had been stolen.

Yarrow had used the letter to gain insight in to his foe and find the weakness that could bring him down. Montrose had known too much about him so Yarrow had done the same but gone the more personal way. It was that letter that put Zinedine on Yarrow's radar. After his demise the letter again directed Yarrow to Chase.

"I don't think so. This is mine just like everything Monty left you. You see he owed most of that stuff to me and I want it back. You can hand it over or you can suffer. I have some pretty impressive connections." Yarrow glanced at the tall man behind Chase. He brushed off the blue glare with nothing more than a smirk. "You give me what I want and we can clear this whole thing up."

"Clear it up? Like this is some unfortunate misunderstanding. You killed Montrose! You framed me! You…you…" Yarrow loved that he could still twist the young man up inside. It was addictive being able to wield such power over another being. He held out the letter again and though he resisted at first Chase reached out to grab it. The gesture put Chase within Yarrow's grasp after he'd been so careful to stay out of it. He grabbed Chase's arm with his free hand and tugged him closer.

"I made a man out of you. If you want we can discuss this in a more horizontal position. Those meetings always went so well back in Trenton." The light brown eyes directed down at his prey smouldered with remembered pleasure. The heady mix of power and lust, even in recollection, got him excited. The fantasy hadn't even finished playing out in Yarrow's gutter of a mind before a swift fist collided with his face.

"Oh! I think that was just a bit too hard for a 'chin check'," House commented with a smile as he watched the felon fall. Chase didn't know how or why House was so familiar with prison slang. Most of his attention was on Yarrow, who was picking himself off the floor with an angry look on his face. The fury that boiled his blood was beginning to cool to a simmer. In the face of Yarrow's anger he felt unaccountably weak, the moment of anger having flared and passed. A warm presence pressed lightly against his back, reassuring and supporting him as his fight waned and the dread returned.

Yarrow worked his jaw with his right hand. "Well at least you didn't stab me this time."

"Something tells me you deserved it back then too. In the mean time we have to go." House grabbed Chase by his upper arm and forced him from the room. The young physician was still looking at the crumpled letter in the parolee's hand, gauging how he could get it. House wasn't about to let him take the risk, especially now that Yarrow was trekking into the realm of royally pissed. "And if I find you anywhere near Doctor Chase, or his home, or his place of work, or his grocery store, or his dentist, I'll call someone and get you thrown back in the big house. I have my own connections." He didn't wait for a response and Chase didn't wait for House.

He was down the short corridor and out of the clinic in a few seconds. He wasn't sure how he ended up in the men's washroom but he paced up and down trying to calm himself, trying to figure out what he was going to do next. He hadn't expected this to follow him to work. For some reason the hospital was a safe zone, sacred ground, he was supposed to be secure here. Robert laughed at himself. Even in his head that didn't sound right.

"Chase."

He raised his hands to House as the older man walked in to the bathroom, stalling any words. He couldn't listen to anything right now. He just needed to calm down, and think, and calm the fuck down. He faced away from House and brought his hands to cover his face. He was starting to feel claustrophobic, which was strange because he didn't suffer from claustrophobia and the room was pretty big –four sinks, four stall, four urinals, plenty of space. He shouldn't have felt like the walls and the world were closing in on him.

"Rob."

The sound of his name saved him. The arm around his wasted moored him.

"I have to finish this," he whispered in conclusion to his storm of thought.

Into the short blonde hair House dipped his head, letting his lips brush against the soft strands.

"Finishing means you've already started." House didn't expect Chase to answer. He sighed and tilted his face to rest in the blonde hair mumbling, "What have you done?"

Chase reached back to grasp at the House's shoulder. He loosely clutched the blazer feeling the soft yielding of the shoulder-pad underneath.

"I have to."

"You don't owe him anything."

Chase swallowed back his unrest so that he could speak. "This isn't for him." His accent and his nerves softened the words but not their resolve.

"I'm not going to let you do this."

The door to the washroom opened. Chase moved to put some distance between them but House didn't let go. He wasn't worried about anybody seeing them. Other people's opinion of him was low on his list of priorities. Besides he recognized the sound of Wilson's walk anywhere.

"Uh…Chase, Cuddy is looking for you. House…well, Cuddy always wants to know what you're up to."

"You can tell her I'm feeling up my intensivist." He gave Chase a parting squeeze before letting him go. Chase took a deep breath and a glance at the two older men before walking out. House noticed that the look lingered on Wilson just a little too long. His first response was jealousy, which he quickly beat down. After another millisecond of consideration he realized that the look had been the calculating one that Chase sometimes wore when he was working on a particularly intricate and delicate puzzle. The door closed with a dull thud and it marked the same moment in time that House knew Chase was going to make a move; probably a bad one.

"What's going on?" House inquired now that they were alone.

Wilson walked further in to the washroom. "I'm not sure. People in dark suits and carrying badges –either Chase really did kill someone or they're worried about the same thing we're worried about." His personal issues not withstanding, Wilson couldn't help but fret about Chase in this situation.

House tilted his head to the left and glimpsed up to the ceiling. "You think they'd want to know that the guy they're worrying about is here?"

Wilson didn't catch on right away. "The guy? THE guy! He's here?"

"Well, he was two minutes ago. I'm not sure how speedy crime bosses are with their exits." He let his head droop forward as he considered what Chase was likely going to do. "Chase won't tell them. He thinks he has a score to settle."

"Doesn't he?" Wilson argued.

"I don't care if God is working through him. I'm not going to let him get himself killed. He can recover from being raped. He can't recover from being dead."

Wilson pivoted to follow as House brushed past him. "Did you stop to think that maybe he might need to do this to recover?"

"You're not going soft on me are you, Jimmy?"

"Are getting soft in the brain, Greg? You usually love watching people dig themselves into holes they can't escape from."

House pulled the door open and didn't bother holding it for the man he knew was following him out. "Now that's not fair. I usually hit you over the head with the shovel before I throw it to you. Couldn't stop you from getting married, again, but personal responsibility has to kick in somewhere." To himself, House marvelled at his brilliance. He could keep up a conversation of a topic he wasn't remotely interested in and still leave his buddy speechless.

"House…"

The warning he knew was coming finally arrived and he was ready for it.

"He asked me to save him. I'm not going to hesitate when I have to save him from himself."

James shook his head. "He really did a number on you." Neither man took notice of the eyes following them or the ears following their conversation. They'd caught the attention of more than a few people.

"Now you're just jealous," House announced and without looking back he passed through a set of double doors before they could close behind the last person who had gone through. James watched the man he called a best friend leave and wondered what was wrong with him that House was the best he could get.

H 

Chase slowly entered the crowded office. He didn't hide the suspicious glares he directed at the men and women sporting gold shields from either their belt, or breast pocket. He picked his way past the five unfamiliar people until he got to Dr. Cuddy.

"What is all this?"

The older woman gave him a sympathetic look and began to explain. "The FBI thinks you might have valuable information."

"I don't," Chase responded quickly. His patience was gone. Away from the suffocating presence of his former cellmate Chase felt his anger and his strength returning. His anger was fed by the knowledge that even outside the prison Yarrow had power over him. It was power evolved by experiences in prison, maintained my memory and despised by the victim. "Can I go now?"

Cuddy wanted to say yes.

"We just have a few questions to ask you."

Chase turned to the brown-hair man who had spoken. "Really? And I suppose you need this much back up for a few questions?"

"You probably aren't all that familiar with the organization, but we like to be thorough, and well prepared. You know. In case one of your pals from Trenton shows up. You wouldn't have happened to see Antony Yarrow anywhere around here would you?"

Chase turned to the haughty man who didn't look much older than he was. If this little upstart wanted to antagonize him they could take this outside because right now he was spoiling for a fight. Pummelling someone would likely do wonders for his nerves.

"Even if I had, I wouldn't tell you." The two men squared off and both their superiors were about to call them off when the door to the office burst open.

"Am I interrupting?"

"Get out, House." Cuddy was short with him. She wasn't sure she could keep a leash on both her doctors right now. She'd never seen Chase like this and handling House was always an art form. She didn't have time to work any masterpieces right now. Or handle any pieces of work.

House barged in despite his lack of welcome, throwing a smirk at his boss.

"Let me guess. FBI."

The man facing Chase rolled his eyes. "Brilliant deduction."

"Let give you another one. You're here about Yarrow. You just missed him," House said as he pointed out the doors towards the rest of the hospital. "If you hurry you might catch him." House didn't turn to watch, but the sound of feet on the carpet supplied that at least two people were going to check it out.

"Agent Chamberlain. I'm the lead detective on this case," a tall woman stepped forward and introduced herself. She offered her hand to Chase, who didn't make any move to return the gesture. She returned her hand to her side knowing better than to offer it to the tall, unshaven man. "We need to know what Yarrow said. Why was he here?"

"Not a clue," Chase stated. "If you'll excuse me." He went to exit but that detective he really didn't like blocked his path.

"That's no way to speak to a lady."

"Cool your jets, Yankee," Chamberlain chastised her NYC-native detective. "Doctor Chase we know Montrose left everything he had for you. I'm guessing that he also imparted some information as well. You must know that Montrose and Yarrow got each other arrested. What Montrose leaked to get Yarrow put away, however, only scratched the surface of what he knew. Yarrow had nothing else on Montrose so he was in the clear. His death was Yarrow's best way of securing his freedom."

"You're boring me," Chase said cruelly, folding his arms across his chest in a gesture of impatience. They didn't know nearly as much as they thought they knew.

"If Montrose told you what he knew, then you've got Yarrow by the balls and he's squirming. You share what you know with us, and we'll hang him by them. All we want is to talk to you for a little while. You have my word that we'll protect you from him."

Chase glared sidelong at her, resenting that he was being ganged up on. And he now had a history with law enforcement. "You want me to trust you? Last time I went in for questioning with cops, I was arrested for a double murder I didn't do, and sent to a bloody prison!"

"That's been corrected. We know that there's a connection to Yarrow and the officers who arrested you are being investigate by Internal Affairs. We're trying to make this right." She was attempting to be soothing but more than anything her tone was patronizing. House knew this wasn't going to go well.

"You know how you can make this right?" Chase walked directly up to the woman. "You can go back in time and prevent my arrest, my incarceration and Montrose's death! But you can't so sod off!" He went for the exit but was again blocked. This time by a different, significantly balder man. The man raised his hands ready to apply force to keep their "person of interest" from leaving but Chase paused and tensed.

"Just touch me," he threatened. The other man stilled.

"Let him go," Chamberlain said. The agent stepped out of the way and Chase was as good as gone.

"Well, that went well," Cuddy commented.

"I can't believe he stood three of you down. And me without my camera," House mocked.

Chamberlain took a breath and changed gears, pushing away the comforting maternal figure that didn't actually come off very comforting or maternal. "He likes you, Doctor House. Talk to him. Make him see sense."

"So that you can convince him to testify, making himself a target for the mob? You may not know this but he had a less than stellar run in with a mob guy a year or so ago."

"We can protect him. Witness protection–"

"And what small, mid-west city have you found where his accent wouldn't stand out?"

"With practice his accent can be eliminated."

"So what makes you think that he'd do it, or that I'd let him?" He had originally come with the intention of getting Chase to cooperate. He now recalled why he didn't like cooperation; it somehow always ended up as a parasitic relationship. The only person who was going to benefit here was the FBI. Chase would be locked away in some squalid, little place in the middle of Ass-munch, Wyoming while the detectives received their kudos and promotions.

"He's already a target. We're his only chance. You know that. You just don't want to admit it." She gestured for the other agents to leave. This was a big case and there were a lot of careers and promotions riding on it, but this also meant taking out a powerful wing of the organized crime regime that law enforcement agencies had always had trouble getting a handle on. This was going to take finesse. "We'll be in touch."

"I'll be in surgery."

Chamberlain smirked and followed the rest of her team out.

It was several seconds before Cuddy felt she could sit down without something getting sprained from all the pent up tension. Eventually she dropped into her chair. House continued to stand though he seemed to be leaning more on his left leg.

"They aren't nearly as cool as the guys I the movies. Their plan sucked."

"If you have a better idea, I'm all ears," Cuddy sighed, her heart going out to Chase who was faced with this impossible dilemma.

House pressed his lips into a thin line. His crafty eyes skimmed across the familiar and tastefully adorned office taking in none of the details. He walked out a few seconds later without offering Cuddy any alternatives. He needed time to think. He also needed to track down and keep an eye on his wily and elusive Aussie.

H 

The rest of the day was quiet and tense. Chase and House went back to work joining Cameron and Foreman with diagnosing the patient. They seemed to be on the right path with the autoimmune condition. The erythrocyte sedimentation rate was elevated as House had predicted and the ultrasound of the abdomen showed an aneurysm of the aorta. The angiogram was scheduled for the next day and with that they would determine whether surgical intervention was required. Foreman was still whining that the diagnosis was nothing more than a lucky guess since the reduction in sight couldn't be confirmed in a blind patient. House continued to say that he was just that good. Cameron suggested biopsy of the temporal arteries and House agreed. By the end of the day the patient was stable and nothing else could be done until the following one. Six o'clock rolled around and Cameron exited first. She threw a look at House, and then at Chase, and was gone. House watched her leave thinking to himself that she didn't have any reason to feel betrayed.

He was fond of Cameron. He liked her contradictions. He liked watching her evolve beyond them. If he could cut away all that neediness, all that wounded idealism she wore like a fashion statement, and if he could giver her Chase's ass and Cuddy's boobs –yeah, he might have taken her for a tumble. As things were now though, he had Chase –at least he hoped he had Chase –and Chase was all he wanted.

"I'm going."

Foreman's declaration pulled House back to the present. "Go."

The man left. House looked to the conference room and found it was empty. He glanced around hoping to catch a glimpse of his Australian somewhere but didn't. He swivelled his chair around to face his balcony and rose. He could use this time to talk to Wilson. He needed to figure out the whole picture. Chase and the FBI weren't sharing, and it was clear that something was going on in Chase's head. He'd been quiet and tired all day, but after the FBI and Yarrow's visits he was more alert and, amazingly, more withdrawn. At some point in the afternoon he'd slipped out and gone to that café for another one of his too sweet coffees. He took only six sips (House had counted) and spent most of his time staring at the logo. Something was going on and House was going to find out.

He barely remembered that there was a short wall that needed to be hopped when saw into Wilson's office. What was Chase doing in there and why were he and Wilson arguing? House jumped the partition, pausing to wince and hold his leg when the landing hurt more than it should have. He brushed the pain aside and approached the closed glass door. It was unlocked so he inched it open, quietly, and listened.

"I don't want either of you hurt!" Wilson exclaimed. His hands were raised and tense as though he was struggling with the fight not to strangle Chase, who was red-faced with anger, or a believable imitation of it.

"What the hell do you care?" Chase asked a moment too late. House immediately zoned in on the hesitation and cocked his head forward a little. "You think I don't know you resent me? You think I've stolen what's yours! You don't want to share him. Well, here's something to get you off my case! You don't have to share him!" Chase turned to leave but Wilson stopped him. There was so much shock and anger on his face that House actually felt his chest constrict at what might happen next. Unconsciously he readied himself to intervene.

Wilson knew that his grip on Chase's arms was tight, painful probably, but he didn't care. "That's it? You're just going to leave him?"

Chase didn't answer directly. Instead he asked a question of his own. "Isn't that what you would have done to me?" Wilson froze. His heart rate picked up. "Fucked me and then left? I think your record with half the nursing staff speaks for itself."

Wilson almost hit him. He actually tried to. Chase had jerked out of his grasp moving back about a foot and Wilson had swung. Angry or not, bigger or not, emotion and size weren't enough to trump prison-honed evasion skills. Wilson just barely managed to clip Chase's cheek as the younger man quickly changed the direction of his motion, to stepped forward, too close to be hit and too close for comfort. Running from a fight just made one a bigger target in prison. Stepping up worked better both figuratively and literally.

Wilson was off balance –his fist and the force he put behind it pulling him forward, and the hands grasping the front of his shirt doing the same. Something hooked his foot. He felt himself falling even as he was being twisted. He was practically seated in the chair usually reserved for patients when the fall stopped –the edge of the seat digging into the upper part of his rear Chase was standing over him hands still fisted in his shirt and lab coat. His eyes were bright with emotion, and also something calculating. The cunning vanished at Wilson's next words.

"You don't love him at all, do you?"

Chase stopped breathing. So did the spy trying to make himself as still as possible.

"I…" He felt his voice wavering and looked away. Though his gaze was averted Wilson would still see his eyes.

Chase could love House. He'd spent most of the afternoon contemplating where the relation \ship could go if he were to try. Him and House -under normal circumstances it sounded like a recipe for disaster. With everything that had happened; House's shooting, his incarceration –they were both more than fit for therapy and he wasn't sure if either of them was strong enough to put up with the other. And if they could, Chase wasn't sure he could risk it. Yarrow was still gunning for him and he couldn't run the risk that Yarrow would go after anyone close to him, even if it was a short list. So he gave the right answer. It was the one that would put him at a distance to the two people who would work the hardest and give up the most to save him.

"I can't love someone who doesn't want to be loved…It's not worth it."

Wilson felt that urge to punch him again. From his awkward position he couldn't so Chase was safe. When the younger man let go, he was quick to move away. He went straight for the door.

"That almost hurts." House's sudden interruption startled the other two men. They turned to the balcony where House was limping in, clearly keeping most of his weight off his injured leg. The other two men barely notice, so shocked by his sudden arrival. "Except I didn't ask to be loved."

Chase was about to say something. His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Then ask, his traitorous mind prompted, the part that wanted House to break apart this ruse, the part that still wanted to be saved.

He looked scared, as scared and conflicted as House or Wilson had ever seen him. He was going to turn away but House spoke again. House asked. Chase didn't respond, so afraid and so torn. This wasn't supposed to happen. Chase turned his back and left, hiding the cracks like he knew he had to.

Silently, calmly House moved. He dropped himself into the chair next to Wilson and sat staring forward across the oncologist's desk.

He'd asked. Had he lied? Was he presently so desperate to save Chase that he'd do anything, even if it meant over stating his sentiments? He wasn't sure how strong his feelings for his intensivist went. He was pretty certain that with a bit of luck and some effort, they could have a working relationship.

Did he love Chase? Could he love Chase? He wasn't sure. He wanted to. He wanted to be that close to him, and he was trying, because that's were the honest part of his emotion directed him. He lied sometimes, but he hadn't lied here, and he didn't lie to himself often.

Next to him, Dr. Wilson tried to get the confrontation in order.

"I just wanted to talk to him," he explained, eyes on the base of his desk. He felt Greg's eyes slide over to rest on him for a moment then away.

"He's up to something." He was more certain now than ever, and more worried too. "If I'd known he could be that manipulative, I wouldn't have come running to you each time I needed to dupe a patient."

"What are you talking about? Didn't you hear him?"

House was staring forward again. "I heard him." He levered himself out of the chair. "And I read between the lines."

James hated reading between the lines. Hadn't been good at it in English class in grade school and he wasn't any better at it now. He was a firm believer that if something was being said between the lines, then it wasn't being said at all. Still, when House got up to leave, he followed.

"He's manipulating you," House said making his way back to his office –through the hall this time.

"You're trying to read something that's not there. He used you, Greg." It hurt to say. He didn't expect it to. Surprisingly, he hadn't wanted it to be true. A small, somewhat reluctant section of his mind thought that, maybe, they would be good for each other. It seemed like his original instinct had been right after all.

House had his own instinct. "No. He's trying to protect me."

H 

**End Chapter 13**

Yay! Mwa ha ha ha haa! I really like this chapter for some reason.

Next chapter out on Sunday. Sorry for the delays.

Sagga…


	15. Chapter 14

Warning(s): Violence. Language

Chapter rating PG-13

**Chapter 14**

A glance in the mirror showed him a man he didn't recognize. Desperate and lost, this man could see only one attainable goal. He liked to call it justice, though most would label it revenge. Most also wouldn't blame him. After everything that had happened he wasn't just going to hand over what Yarrow wanted. He'd made promise, more to himself than anyone. He was willing to risk what little he had, and give up what little he might have found to bring this to an end.

He straightened his tie and fixed his collar, looking respectable in his nicely tailored attire. It was the same suit he'd worn to Zinedine's funeral months ago. Now he was wearing it to Montrose's. It was more depressing than it was fitting. He sighed at his reflection and reminded his weary body and mind that today was the last day. He'd say goodbye to Montrose, put an end to this conflict with Yarrow and, if he was still in one peace at the end of the day, he'd find House and apologize.

H 

Chase didn't come to work the next day. House had called, driven to his apartment to bang on his door – nothing. He spent the rest of the morning just sitting and staring, watching the people pass by the glass walls to the conference room in the vain hope that the next person that came by would be the missing physician. It was vaguely creepy to the two remaining fellows, House just sitting in the chair at the end of the conference table nearest the door, waiting and staring. He picked up his phone every once in a while, to page Chase or call his cell phone. The pages received no response and the phone was always off.

"Still no answer?"

House blinked and noticed Wilson in the doorway, blocking his view. He could only guess how long he'd been there and not noticed. The only person his brain was set to notice was Chase.

"Seems we're not the only ones looking for him," Wilson said. House didn't comment on the 'we' part. Wilson had been reluctant to help him on his hunt until ten o'clock came and went with nary a peep from their resident blond. House figured he was still sceptical. You think he'd have more faith in the diagnostician's powers of deductions. He'd predicted all of Wilson's divorces. "I came to give you advanced warning that the cops are back."

House didn't move. "So soon?" His eyes briefly followed a resident in a lab coat as he passed by the glass wall. He was quickly dismissed from House's mind. It wasn't Chase. "I figured they'd wait a couple of days. Maybe set up some speed traps on his route to work, try and hassle him into doing what they want."

Said cops made their entrance, halting their hurried steps at the doors of the diagnostics room. House's eyes narrowed as his view was blocked again.

"Dr. House."

Eventually House brought his eyes up to the man in the dark suit. "Detective Goren, a little out of your jurisdiction aren't you?" his little, blonde partner was there too, as was Chamberlain, her little upstart Yankee and some other tool.

Detective Eames, the small blonde, hastily explained the reason for their visit. "Something's going on today and your fellow is directly involved. We have reason to believe there's a hit out on him. If you know where he is you need to tell us." It was actually a phone tap in New York on one of the suspects Goren and Eames had a hunch about that lead them to Princeton this morning. To prevent any hurt feelings they'd hand no choice but to inform the locals on the case. They'd had enough run ins with the FBI to know they didn't take kindly to anybody stepping on their toes.

"Reason to believe –huh? Those phone psychics are rarely right. Ten percent, tops."

"You have psychics we have phone-taps. People are worried about loose ends. Yarrow has been compromised. Some of his associates are worried that he's gotten sloppy. They want Yarrow gone and Chase is in the line of fire." Goren crossed his arms and let his eyes skip to the other doctors. They took their lead from House, he knew, but they would speak out if it was important. "If you know something and you don't tell us you're going to get him killed."

Wilson, House, Foreman and Cameron were silent. The latter two glanced around hoping somebody would say something. They hadn't been aware that the situation with Chase was this bad. Wilson glanced between his seated friend and the pair of New York detectives. Behind them Chamberlain and her group waited for any information. House didn't respond. He didn't have anything to tell them. Eventually his shoulders lost their rigid posture, defeated. He had no hand to play, no deal to strike.

"We don't know anything," Cameron says with honest upset straining her otherwise professional tone. "If he's not here or at his place…" she shrugged and shook her head.

Chamberlain gave a short huff from behind Eames and Goren. "Call the locals get a description of Robert Chase out there. We're wasting time here." She rushed her people out. While the other suits left Goren and Eames stayed behind.

"So, he didn't tell you anything," Goren re-iterated. "Probably to protect you. Problem is he's alone against an army. You guys know him the best. Where would he go?"

It was embarrassing to admit that though they worked so closely together, they didn't do much interacting outside the hospital. There respective haunts were unknown to the others. House and Wilson knew of the Bomber but that was all.

"We don't know," Wilson said again.

Goren nodded. He walked further into the glass walled room, hand at his chin while he thought through Chase's situation. "He's in a corner and people like him will fight there way out with a ferocity that might surprise you. He's not going to let Yarrow win, even if it means they both lose. His only qualm would be that nobody else goes down with him." He'd made it over to the opposite window and turned around to eye the missing man's colleagues. "He may not have told you anything but this has been consuming him. I can't tell you how long he might have been planning this and I know he must seem different now than he was before, but there must have been something. Something that he did, something he probably didn't even know he was doing. It might seem insignificant but it could lead somewhere." He didn't know what exactly Chase might have let slip. While he was contemplating his strategy he must have dropped a few subconscious hints, almost hoping for discovery.

Even Foreman, with his general mistrust of law enforcers, had to admit that these two didn't seem that bad. The large man was obviously very intelligent if a little awkward, and the woman was sharp, and likely the more practical of the pair. He wished he had something to tell them. He wished Chase had told him something. Cameron wished the same thing. House, seated, realized that Chase already had told them.

After being almost motionless House rose from his perch of vigilance and walked slowly and deliberately to the garbage next to the cabinet that supported their trusty coffee maker.

"What is it?" Goren asked. He may not like House but the man was brilliant, he couldn't deny that.

"He's been scoping out a place."

"What?" Cameron walked over and peered down. Brows furrowed she picked up the disposable coffee cup from the garbage. It was decorated with an unfamiliar logo on the side. She felt somebody approach from behind her. She glanced back finding the petit blonde detective. Cameron handed her the cup then looked back into the almost full bin. There were more cups with the same logo filling the trash can.

H 

"You called me here. What do you want?" Yarrow asked. Chase tried not to show his discomfort as he sat down across from his nemesis. He'd called this meeting, picked the time and place, kept it secret from his friends and the coworkers he would occasionally venture to call his friends. He had to let Yarrow know that this ended here, one way or another. It was conceivable that he wouldn't see tomorrow or one of the following days but should that happen he hoped not to cause hurt to anybody. That was why he didn't respond to House's request, fled before his treacherous mouth could spill what he had to hide.

If he had given in, if House knew, then the man would be relentless, more than he already was. Chase didn't need or want House getting caught up in this. Despite his feelings of guilt this was not his fault. Chase was the one who'd accidentally stumbled into a family with more secrets than his own, and had been a pawn in a power struggle. Nevertheless, pawns could tip kings.

"You've lost," Chase said once he was resting in the seat across from Yarrow. The small café was not even half-full. He knew the lunch time crowd wouldn't begin their expedition to this particular luncheon venue for another forty or so minutes. The establishment boasted the finest wraps in the area. Chase had tried one and not been impressed but he hadn't gone there for the food. The place was small, quiet, with one exit at the front and one at the back. The surrounding neighbourhood was semi-business. There was a clinic and private medical office a few blocks away. The place next door was a dry cleaner and across the street was a government building, the department of something-or-other. There were no schools nearby, no daycare, no hospitals, no parks or malls. The nearest theatre was a good twenty minutes away but McDonalds was only ten, which was important, because it meant that on a day to day basis this place was fairly quiet even at peak hours. And Chase knew well when those peak hours were, and had planned accordingly.

He and Yarrow were at a small table at the front of the café, Yarrow with his back to the glass and the outside world, Chase with his back to the rest of the patrons. He knew that sprinkled within the other five customers, was at least one of Yarrow's goons. He didn't concern himself with that.

"I've lost? Really?" His tone indicated amusement as if Chase had just said something cute.

"That shipment coming in today, Customs just might decide to take a closer look at your cargo." That was harder to get out than Chase had expected. He couldn't remember what exactly he'd just said and wondered if he'd mixed up any words in his haste and anxiety.

The smirk on Yarrow's face fell to a scowl.

Judging from that reaction, the point had gotten across, mistakes or not.

"Those tip lines can be a real nuisance." His delivery reminded him of House. A slight smile tugged at his lips to mask the expressions of fear that might otherwise be displayed. "That little spin-off business or yours isn't going to get off the ground. In fact, your partner just might be arrested soon. I mean, those DHS guys investigate every little tip that comes in –considering the details that went with that tip, their definitely going to be interested. Your associates will be disappointed I'm sure, and you'll never be trusted with anything again, but I here nine of ten new business fail in their first year." His voice was steady, a little clipped but he hid the fearful response Yarrow's angry demeanour had conditioned his body to feel. His heart was pounding and it was a constant battle to keep his breathing even.

Yarrow leaned across the table his intense, dark glare spearing Chase. "I don't like it when you speak. I prefer you with something stuffed down your throat."

Chase forced back the gag at the rush of memories. He wouldn't let Yarrow distract him. He continued. "News of your side-line business is going to be all over soon. Those you kept in the dark won't appreciate you scheming behind their backs. Prison is a great place to make connections, but you talk just a little too loudly and way to much." Chase smirked at blend of anger and shock on Yarrow's face as the older of the two realized that his cellmate had learnt too much without him knowing. For Chase, it felt unbelievable good to be one up on the mobster. The grip Yarrow had on him was loosening and he felt his apprehension easing in counterpoint to the rising fury presenting on the man across from him. With a few phone calls and a few hints Chase had, how do they put it, 'dropped the dime' on the plot that was already in action. He went on outlining Yarrow's fall and feeling his mood rising with each word. "You don't even have the funds to finance your, now failed, venture. That's why you want what Montrose gave me." The man had a great deal of money from his many years of cleaning money for the mob. Montrose had been an expert at scrubbing, hiding and moving money around. Yarrow needed those connections. Montrose had known and, in an effort to make Chase more of a player and less of a bargaining chip, he'd written his will to leave everything to the foreign man that he thought he owed a great deal too. His plan had backfired, leaving him dead. It was only now, in this round about way, Chase made it work. He had those connections Yarrow so desperately needed, and the money too, but he had no intention of giving them up, or ever using them.

Through his rage Yarrow found his voice enough to spit out a warning. "You don't want to make an enemy of me. I can end you and your friends with a snap of my fingers."

"That won't solve your problems. If anything you'll add to them. You see there's this guy, Arnello, right bastard, but a little indebted to a friend of mine. He and his boss are actually quite happy with your project being sunk –less competition for them –I'm practically one of the family," Chase exaggerated. "You hurt me and they'll drop twice the hurt on you." He didn't like to think of this as helping Arnello or his people, but rather, preventing the introduction of yet another supplier of cheap drugs that people could just kill themselves with. No country needed more drug suppliers and a man like Yarrow didn't need more power. He didn't deserve any.

The unglamorous man sat back a little and glared at the much more fetching man across from him. Mentally, he went through his options. His carefully constructed plans had just been torn apart by this little punk. If he hadn't had the Islington's, his previous 'accountants' on the project, eliminated he wouldn't be in this mess in the first place. Unfortunately the couple had left him no choice when they decided they would go to the cops. Montrose had been his last ditch effort to salvage his project. All the money in the world was useless if he didn't have a place to keep it safe or the connections to move it around. He was out of options.

"Yeah," Chase said with a smug nod, knowing that Yarrow knew he'd been beaten. Knowing, more importantly that he'd beaten Yarrow. "So why don't you just fucking choke on it," he spat with such venom he could have been a cobra. He threw one last look at Yarrow and went to stand, triumphant and free at last. With speed Chase hadn't expected, his former cellmate reached across the small span of the table to grab the younger man around the back of his neck. Chase winced at the pressure and grit his teeth as the vice tightened.

"I'm not afraid of your friend, and there's no way I'm afraid of you," Yarrow hissed, his breath brushing across Chase's face. "I can still fix this but I'm afraid it's over for you." Yarrow tugged hard, pulling Chase forward and crushing their lips together in a harsh mockery of a kiss. He had his own plan set up in case he deemed Chase to be too much of a liability. He clearly was.

Wide-eyed and revolted, Chase struggled to pull away. Yarrow released him without warning and Chase tumbled back into his chair, nearly falling backwards. He was too shocked and sickened to say anything. Flushed with indignation and nausea he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"That wasn't very nice."

Both men turned to the entrance. Chase was shocked to find…

"House!" He'd run to his car, broken numerous traffic laws, and sped all the way there. He hadn't spared a moment to tell the others where the business was located, so it was no surprise that he beat them to it. He did wish he'd had the foresight to bring a gun or something.

"You're skipping work again," House stated without looking at his wayward intensivist. His chilly gaze was locked on Yarrow. "And you shouldn't touch what's not yours."

Yarrow laughed. "Doctor House, again. You want to die with him? Be my guest." A snap of his fingers and suddenly House's arms were pinned behind his back by a rather shabbily dressed minion of Yarrows. Another large man emerged from his corner to stand near Chase, silently threatening bodily harm should he try anything.

The proprietor of the café who'd been ignoring the rather blatant argument between Yarrow and Chase began to step in now. "Hey-" Yarrow's thug whipped out a firearm, sleek and black, and took aim at the café owner who backed slowly away with his hands up. The other few patrons remained still and silent, watching the events unfold.

"I am sorry it has to end like this," Yarrow said to Chase with what sounded like fondness in his voice. "As for you." He walked over to the scruffy physician and stared at him for a moment. "Well, I just don't like you."

House smiled "Ditto."

Yarrow briefly returned the smile. He stepped back as though taking his leave but at the last moment he swung his foot, delivering a kick to House's injured thigh.

The pain paralyzed him, brought tears to his eyes and when the grip on his arms was removed he fell. The sound of his name being called was faint, barely noticeable background noise to the sharp discomfort overtaking his senses.

Chase began towards House but the goon turned shifted his gun, forcing him to a halt. He glanced at the hard, emotionless face and down to the one contorted in pain. The clenched jaw and the lines of expression from the pinched features were deeper and darker due to the greyish shadow of stubble on the older face. Clawed hands, petrified with tension enough to raise his veins and tendons, grasped at the injured part. Watching the scene of suffering bled away whatever sense of triumph Chase once had. The weight of guilt, shame and fear again suffocated him as he considered what Yarrow had just done; what he'd just heartlessly taken away.

"You bastard!"

"You did this to him!" Yarrow snapped, exploiting the guilt he knew the more decent man was feeling. "I told you I could hurt you and your friends. You made me do it. And you're making me do this too."

Chase looked into the eerily bright, brown eyes and read the intent. He wasn't going to see tomorrow. He wasn't going to get a chance to apologize.

House struggled through the searing discomfort, and lifted his head to watch, if not hear, the last exchange of angry words between his fellow and the crook. Chase's face was flushed with anger, maybe some panic too. Yarrow was calm, angry but calm. He directed his men to leave and House felt a shadow cross him as one of the thugs stepped over his form. Yarrow made another gesture and smiled cruelly at Chase. That smile, that face, and the next few moments would be the stuff of his nightmares for some time to come.

The large glass window fronting the café erupted with a network of fine white cracks and a single small hole. A small cloud of red droplets burst from the gangster's chest and Antony Yarrow's eyes went wide with shock. The stunned Australian only a few feet in front of him raised a shaky hand, and the finely dispersed spray of blood coloured his palm and fingers red. He didn't even notice Yarrow fall to the ground as another hole appeared in the glass window bringing the whole pane down in a shower of bright splinters.

House watched helplessly as Chase's body jerked. A red stain quickly blossomed on the front of his shirt. Chase looked down at himself. Feeling nothing, he watched the patch of dark red grow, ruining the light blue fabric. Somehow he was down on the floor watching the ceiling. There was commotion around him and the sound of what he thought were guns being fired. He decided to stay down. Being shot once was enough.

The rest of his mind began to filter back and the pain began. That part of himself that was still detached from the situation catalogued the wound and began estimating his own chances of survival; depends on bullet path, calibre, type, whether he got medical attention soon, his general state of health. His musings ended with him biting back a scream. Something was pressing against his chest, right on the wound.

"Chase! Rob! Stay with me! Keep you're eyes open!"

"House?" The name was nearly lost in the gurgle that came with it. A froth of blood dribbled from his mouth, staining his lips and tracing a bright line across his paling cheek.

"No speaking," House admonished in his usual manner. For some reason that made Chase smile. House clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the pain in his leg. He relaxed it to speak, biting out harsh words. "What are you so happy about? You just got yourself shot. Hey, no talking!"

Chase coughed instead, bringing up drops of blood to dot his face. His breaths started getting shorter. More blood slipped out of him between House's fingers. From beneath him a pool of crimson liquid was expanding. The puddle crept outward, it's movement mocking the effort House was making to save the severely injured man.

"Shit! What have you done to yourself?" House asked rhetorically. Chase thought he misheard the waiver in his boss's voice. He hoped he misheard it. He didn't want to hurt him.

"…m'sor..sor…sorry…" Maybe he could apologize after all.

House's face pinched further as the sound of Chase's choking apology made it to his ears.

"I told you to shut up."

The ragged breathing stopped. House was frozen for a moment, his mind screaming that he hadn't meant it like that. He was about to begin resuscitation when he was pulled away and uniformed EMTs went to work. That's when he noticed the sirens, the body of Yarrow and one of his cronies a few feet away, and the flashes of blue and red light that coloured the trashed café.

"Sir, stay down. I need to have a look at you." Another team of EMTs descended on him.

"I'm fine." He tried to get up and back to Chase but his leg kept him down. The pain was so intense he felt himself breaking out into a cold sweat and his stomach churned in an unsettling manner. They quickly had him manoeuvred onto a stretcher. "Take him to Princeton Plainsboro," he managed to call to the EMTs still working on his unconscious, possibly dead fellow.

"House!" He heard Wilson calling his name once outside the café. He didn't immediately have the breath to respond to the shout. Before he could, the doors to the back of the ambulance had closed and he was being sped away from the scene.

H 

"Where is he?" House demanded impatiently.

"You're not supposed to be up. How's your leg?"

"That's not what I asked. Where is Chase?"

Cameron wasn't offended by his tone. She'd worked with him long enough to be able to brush some of it to the side. And he was in pain. His thigh was hurting, he was walking with the help of a crutch, and he'd just been involved in a shooting –another one. He was allowed to be cranky –crankier than usual.

"We haven't heard anything. Wilson called a while ago to say he was still in surgery."

"Called?"

She sighed. "They took him to Princeton General instead of here."

"Fan-fucking-tastic. Get your car we're going to the Gen."

"Don't bother."

Cameron and House both swung around at the sound of Dr. Wilson's drained voice. Cuddy walked in next to him and Foreman brought up the rear, having seen them in the corridor and followed them back to diagnostics to hear the news. Lisa and James looked bad and House knew before they said anything. Cameron knew too.

Her mouth opened, probably to word a denial. Nothing came out. She only shook her head, as though her defiance would change the truth.

Wilson shook looked dully at them, hating having to be the one to impart the sad news. "He lost too much blood–"

"That's what transfusions are for!" House yelled.

Wilson went on as though there had been no interruption. "The damage was too extensive. The bullet went through his inferior vena cava, through his left lung and out. They tried to repair the damage but he…there…there was just too much blood loss."

Foreman and Cameron fell into chairs at the table. There were already tears in her eyes and Foreman lay a comforting hand on her back as they tried to come to terms with the sudden loss of their colleague…and friend, not matter how they may have denied it.

"I thought you were better at this," House said finally, voice reverting back to his usual tone. "I'm not going you thank you for that bit of bad news." He hobbled past them with the crutch he clearly wasn't used to. It was a pitiful sight, a marker of the fall they'd all just taken.

Cuddy shifted her eyes away briefly then posed: "Where are you going?"

"To see him."

His two closest friends warred with what to say. Cuddy had to say something. "He's dead, House!" The harsh statement brought everybody in the hall to a halt. House slowly turned around. Patches of dried blood still stained his shirt and jeans, Chase's blood. They stood out on the haggard man and drew out the haggard lines of his face. Cuddy had to wonder when House had become so old; maybe just in the past few hours.

"I need to see him," He eventually admitted, though his tone was neither embarrassed, nor even subdued. House needed to see him. It was a fact.

Cuddy relented. "I'll drive." She looked at Wilson who shook his head. Cuddy and House left. After a quick glance at the two grieving fellows left in the diagnostics conference room, Wilson went to his office. He didn't turn on the light. The sun was still high in the early afternoon sky. He could make his way through without tripping. It was dark enough though, that he could just sit there and hide from the world for a little while. He sat in his chair staring silently forward at the wall, not knowing that to think. Things felt a little different. One person didn't change the world, so he assumed it must be him –bereavement perhaps the culprit.

H 

The crutch was chucked in a corner the moment he got home, replaced with another crutch and his cane. He popped another pill, adding to the two he'd taken after leaving Princeton General. Cuddy hadn't objected, she was actually the one who written the prescription. When she dropped him off she'd tentatively rested a hand on his leg, his good leg and given a gentle squeeze. House had just nodded, not entirely sure what either of them was trying to convey, and then left for the solitude of his apartment.

The cane had been easy enough to get from the closet. It was just sitting there, waiting for him to come back. If the inanimate object could talk it would be saying "I told you so". Currently he was getting enough of that from his conscience, or his superego, or whatever they called that little bastard that always gave him advice he didn't listen to. I told you it would end like this, in pain. However, to be fair to his conscious mind, this wasn't the type of pain anybody would have anticipated.

He knew what would take it away.

Booze. Not the stuff he usually drank, or the stuff he shared when Wilson came over to mourn over his latest failed tryst (or marriage as he liked to call them). No this was the good stuff; the liquid relief that he'd drank when he got home after his infarction, and then after he lost probably the only woman who would ever love him.

The first sip of the amber ambrosia burned better than when he'd first bought the slightly over-priced hooch. He'd regretted the purchase until he'd had reason to drink it. Then he went back and bought more.

Mixing booze and painkillers was a recipe for disaster. There was a certain order that made it not-so-bad but he couldn't bother to recall whether it was booze then drugs, or drugs then booze. Judging by the quick high, the hazy room and the general weightiness of his limbs he thought he got the order correct. On the other hand, he was beginning to hear the taunts coming from his cane –the jerk –so maybe he did have the order wrong. He shrugged lazily, unevenly.

Who the hell cared?

Wilson –he would grieve alone, at least at first. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after, they would go get sloshed (most likely in silence), just providing a little company with which to lament alone together. Cuddy had already offered her comfort. Despite how they argued, and how they cared for each other, they rarely touched so the gesture was important, noteworthy but that was all. He'd turned it down, her offer of compassion. He didn't even want her to know that Chase's loss affected him. This time it wasn't even his fault and it was still hurting. And he was alone, like he'd previously wanted to be, so why did he feel worse than he had before?

Maybe it was the incessant squeaking of that damn wheel!

"Steve, quit it!"

They yell was followed by silence and he cringed. The silence was worse. He turned on the TV. Didn't care what channel or what program was showing. All he wanted was something to fill the sharp silence, the cold emptiness. Nothing worked.

That afternoon, that evening, and that night he would drink, take pills, and repeat. He would hallucinate, dream, and converse, trying to forget a face, a voice and a feeling that had never really been his except for one night and one morning.

The sun was rising, his head was pounding and his alcohol and codeine induced buzz was taking a turn for the worst. He'd lazed on the couch for most of the last several hours, getting up only to unplug his phone when the ringing felt like a lance through his head, and to use the toilet. It was the latter urge that now pulled him from the soft cushions of his furniture. He didn't make it one step before he fell to the floor, the area rug scraping against his several days old stubble.

He'd forgotten about his leg. It wasn't better anymore. It hurt again. He hurt again. "Welcome back, status quo," he whispered miserably to himself. He smiled the smile of the confused and broken. The despair and the killer hangover stirred the few contents of his upper digestive tract spilling a small pool of greenish bitter liquid from his mouth. The twisted smile was gone.

Greg raised himself to all fours, keeping as much weight as possible from his injured fourth. The last bit of vomit dribbled from his slack lips and he watched without impression as the viscous liquid narrowed into a thin strand before it fell from his bottom lip to its new home as a stain. He crawled with a strange limp just far enough to get away from the mess, then collapsed.

His leg was really throbbing, not as bad as it could be but bad enough, and it was just going to get worse. He hadn't missed this, the constant reminder that he wasn't whole and that he never would be, the weakness that kept him from doing the things he used to love, from being with the woman he used to love. Now he'd lost again and he welcomed the pain as a deserving distraction. Maybe penance but that seemed more seminary-drop-out-style than brilliant-misunderstood-doctor.

He lay there for some time until he fell into a fitful slumber haunted by shattering glass, hailing bullet and smiling thugs. When he woke hours later he would only remember the very end of his REM figment. Rob was there, asking, begging to be found. So Greg got up, splashed some water on his face and began his search to find Chase.

How does a hospital lose a body anyway?

H 

House jerked back from his desk when a device was dropped onto the surface with a resounding clunk.

"What the hell is this?"

"A shaver. Use it."

The diagnostician ran a hand over his fuzzy jaw. "And loose my signature look?"

"A beard is not your signature look." Wilson didn't even get into the fact that his signature look wasn't much better than his current state of unshaven-ness but a beard was just too far.

"I think I'm an inch away from actually calling it a beard."

"I'm an inch away from tossing your computer and your phone out the window! All you've done these past four days is search…for a body!"

"I know. I was there." House went back to his self-appointed work.

Wilson gave up. "Fine. If you won't listen to me, then listen to him." He held out a piece of paper. It was a standard size of eight point five by eleven inches, folded three times and held shut with one staple. "I found it in my desk with a little post-it attached. Said I'd know if and when I had to give it to you." Wilson didn't say who it was from. They both new already.

For several seconds Greg stared at the letter wondering what Chase might have thought he needed to say to him. What was the last thing Chase wanted to tell him? He cautiously took the letter and James only stared at him for a few seconds before he left. With Foreman and Cameron in the clinic or somewhere he was alone in the diagnostics rooms.

Without pause or ceremony he ripped out the staple, lips pulling to the right as the small piece of metal took a chunk of paper with it. Thankfully the ripped paper didn't contain any of the message in it, the short message.

Greg,

STOP!

-Rob

His first thought was, "What the fuck?" Who was this piece of shredded, flattened and bleached tree shavings to tell him what to do? Who was Chase to think that he would listen? Then he realized that he'd been right. This was proof. Chase had been trying to protect him. He distanced himself from them knowing that things might go badly, left a message for him guessing how he might react –maybe he was becoming formulaic.

Cameron and Foreman returned from clinic then. They paused in the doorway, confused and wary of the expression of affront on their superior's face. House looked over at them holding the two in place with his eyes. The team didn't feel right. The whole hospital didn't feel right. He was used to working with three, fighting with three, dodging five on occasion. Two and four just didn't feel right. Cuddy was probably preparing a stack of resumes for him to rifle through for a replacement.

He shook his head. Cameron had been saying something quietly earlier, about a funeral. Nobody but him seemed to think that fact that they didn't even have a body to bury was a problem. They'd figured it was just a mistake, an oversight. After all they worked in a hospital. They knew that sometimes things didn't run as smoothly as one would like, or expect. So they weren't exactly sure whether the body of Robert Chase was in the morgue under a mistaken name or at the coroner's office. Annoying, sure but not something that would warrant a conspiracy theory that Chase was still alive just hidden somewhere.

House wasn't even sure what brought him to this conclusion. The sudden disinterest of the FBI might have something to do with it; that and his suspicious nature in general. He was sure Wilson would have to count using all his fingers and toes the number of times his cockamamie theories had proven correct no matter how little evidence he'd based them on. Of course for each one he got right there were the numerous differentials prior that were wrong. He had to admit that maybe this was one of those times he was wrong.

He rubbed the growing beard on his chin and frowned. He'd been at this non-stop for days and he'd found nothing but dead ends and raised eyebrows –he could hear them even over the phone. It could be time to let this go. Chase could be his new Ester.

He packed away all the papers from his searching, stuffed them into a drawer reserved for those special files. The letter, Robert's last message to him, written in the familiar, tidy, efficient scrawl of Dr. Chase, he folded and slipped into his pocket.

Funny that the only person whose opinion held any weight right now was a dead man. Well, everyone kept telling him Chase was dead and he could only deny it for so long before they started thinking he was crazy.

The drawer closed with a skid and thud. This chapter was at an end.

H 

'Cough, bruises, fever, dyspnea, seizures, mental retardation' the white board read when Cameron and Foreman returned from their lunch break. Foreman took his break in the cafeteria while Cameron had spent half of hers in the clinic helping out with the backlog of patients, and surreptitiously keeping an eye on House. He hadn't been the same since two days ago when he shoved all those papers in the desk where Ester's file had once resided. When House had been away from the office she'd snuck in and peaked, and now she was worried. She tried talking to him but he just stared at her calculatingly. She would ask a question hoping for an honest response. He would ask one of his own, one that made her believe for a brief while that he wasn't worth the effort. When the tapping of the cane that House had brought out of retirement reached her, she was back to being concerned.

Walking into the conference room and seeing the symptoms listed on the board almost brought sighed of relief from the immunologist. A glance at Foreman and he looked relieved too. They missed Chase but their lives were still going on and there were still lives to save.

"Differential," House demanded. He stood near the board eyes on words he'd written just a few seconds ago.

"Coughing, fever and dyspnea point to pneumonia," said Foreman. "What makes you think the bruises are anything more than plane old bruises?"

"A hunch."

The short answer with little bite and no sarcasm caused the two remaining fellows to glance at each other. They remained silent for a minute wondering about House.

"C'mon! Differential diagnosis! Three-year old who would like to see four, even if he can't count to it!" That sounded more like House. He still didn't turn to look at them

Cameron read from the file that had been left in the middle of the table. "He's epileptic, House. Injury during birth. Mother sued the hospital, they settled. If you read the patient history you'd know that."

"I wrote the patient history. I do know that," House said as he turned to glare at her. He turned back to the board quickly, the empty chair leaving his mind unsettled. "He and his mother came into the clinic while I was there. You're not a very good spy if you missed it."

"I wasn't spying. I was just-"

"Is everything always about you? What about little Elmo?"

"Elliot."

"Whatever. Go draw some blood." It sounded like a kiss-off. "I'm serious. Go. And get him a chest X-ray, sputum culture, and an MRI of his head."

Foreman stood. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking the kid has pneumonia, anaemia and a head injury. What I'm really suspecting, is that they might have the same source." House went to his office and sat at his computer. Cameron was going to follow but Foreman stepped in her path and shook his head. He didn't want another argument between the two of them. It made working in the department even weirder and more difficult. Usually when those two butted head Foreman and Chase banned together feeling like the only two sane people left. Without him Foreman just wanted to avoid the awkwardness all together. He didn't want to be reminded that one of his favourite white-boys had just been gunned down like a too many people who couldn't find their way out of his neighbourhood. Besides, it was pretty apparent that House didn't want to be comforted, didn't really need it. He'd get over Chase's death. They all would. Eventually things would feel normal again. Cameron just had to give House time.

H 

"Leukemia," Foreman announced a few hours later to House who was staring blankly at his computer screen. "Blood tests and smear confirmed anaemia and the white blood cell count is low making him susceptible to infection. He also has a decreased fibrinogen level. Elevated uric acid and lactic dehydrogenase levels also pointed to leukemia."

"What about the MRI?"

Foreman sucked in a wary breath. "They're booked solid until tomorrow morning." He'd tried to sneak their patient in but, with the life threatening disease already diagnosed to be leukemia, his MRI wasn't high-priority. Strangely House seemed to agree.

"Okay," was all he said.

Foreman watched him for a few seconds more then left to book the bone marrow biopsy they'd needed to confirm leukemia. House barely noticed his exit. Not that the screen saver floating by his monitor was that interesting.

He was having trouble letting go. He kept asking questions that couldn't be answered and he was only steps from lashing out at someone. He'd stumbled out of denial and into anger and he'd stalled. He was still in denial he supposed, and definitely angry, unfortunately the man he was angry at was dead and the sniper who'd killed both Chase and Yarrow was still at large though the police informed him two days ago that they had a suspect. Freedman, one of the detectives who'd originally arrested Chase for the Islington murders.

The goon that was still able to talk had been quite forthcoming with Yarrow's plot and the cop that was "on the take". The police now knew that Freedman was Yarrow's inside man. In a misguided attempt to break all ties with the mobster and save his own skin, he'd shot Yarrow, his employer who'd ordered him to shoot Chase on his signal. Freedman had shot Chase anyway, maybe on principle, maybe because he knew too much. Unfortunately for the detective the bullets recovered from the scene matched the type used in the sniper rifle that was missing from the gun locker at the precinct. Crooked cops were hunted almost as hard as cop killers. Chase was going to get justice. So why wasn't it enough?

He couldn't go through the steps of grieving if his mind continued to insist that something wasn't making sense, the same way it was insisting that, despite their current case turning out to be rather routine, there was something that still needed to be addressed. These types of inklings had him ordering his team to dig through medical texts and journals to figure out what they had missed, and he would order them to do that as soon as they came back. Digging through Chase's death however was something else entirely. All he had was a feeling, possibly a mistaken feeling, and nobody to help him.

He didn't realize his phone was ringing right away. Once he did, he quickly answered it.

"What?"

"Uh…I'm looking for Doctor Greg House," said a timid voice, either a female or a fairly young male.

"You've found him."

"Oh! Um, you called three days earlier for any information about the immigration status of Robert N. Chase. I'm afraid there's no applicant by that name…anymore."

The fingers rubbing across his forehead paused. "Anymore? Is it normal for applications to just disappear? You can't have that many to go through that it would get lost. Most people don't bother with you guys these days."

"Sir, we process more than-"

"I don't care! What about the file."

"The application is gone and all the relating material has been sealed. The only reason I noticed is because somebody had been working on that case number a week ago and it's logged into the system."

House sat back in his chair and stared up at his ceiling. "So how does a file that was there a week ago, vanish?"

"…I don't know."

House held back his comment of 'you don't know much do you?' and instead just thanked the person. "Wait! One last thing."

"Yes?"

"I have to ask or this is going to be bothering me all day. Are you a boy or a girl?" There was silence and then the phone went dead. He stared at the receiver with mock outrage and dropped it back to its base. "Baby. Just wanted to know if you were XX or X…Y…." he trialed off. His head tilted slowly up from its drooped position as understanding descended in a deluge.

Cameron entered the office a few seconds after the epiphany to find her boss rifling through the array of papers he'd stuffed in this bottom drawer, the "Search for Chase (or at least his body)" papers. He threw them onto his desk and began flipping through them, haphazardly discarding the ones he wasn't interested in.

"House what are you doing?" Cameron ventured, stepping forward.

House glanced up briefly. "Oh, good. It's you. Get a DNA test on that kid, Elmo or Eddie or whatever."

"Why?" she asked with a dubious drawl, her eyes on the papers scattered over and slipping off the desk.

"Because he has an extra chromosome and a missing gene."

"House, he's dead!"

The blue eyes and the mature face tilted towards her. "Elliot?" That was sudden.

The brunette shook her head and corrected him. "Chase." House's blue eyes took in the sincere regret and the sorrow. "He's gone."

"You're right," he quickly agreed, leaving Cameron to frown in confusion and watch as he gathered up a few papers. Documents tucked under his left arm he grabbed his cane with his right hand and hurried to the exit.

"Where are you going?"

"Nowhere."

Cameron jumped into his path halting him. "What about the patient?"

House pressed his lips into thin line. Cameron read the discontent in his expression and knew that she was pushing, so it was with relief that she watched him head down the hall to three-year old Elliot's room. She followed him in, taking the paper and his cane when he roughly shoved them at her.

"Hey there, Elliot," he greeted, ignoring the woman seated in a chair next to the bed. "You ever see that movie?" House sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled the covers down. He began to examine the boy as he spoke. "It was about those fish, clown fish, you know the orange and white ones. One of them had a gimpy fin and he gets captured by the Aussie doctor, not a blond though, and then his dad has to go find him." House made his way up the child's leg to the junction of this abdomen and thigh.

"Finding Nemo!" the exclamation was followed by a coughing fit.

"It's his favourite movie," the mother said rubbing her son's back as he tried to catch his breath. When the episode ended he was going to fall back to the bed but House kept him up and raised this shirt to look at his back.

"House, what are you looking for?"

"Those."

Cameron manoeuvred her way to the bedside to take a look without dropping the objects held precariously in her grasp. Along little Elliot's lower back lines of slate-grey horizontal marks streaked his skin.

"Hyperpigmentation along the Blaschko lines. Stage three of incontinentia pigmenti," House announced. He took the papers and his cane from Dr. Cameron. She barely noticed as she went to look more closely at the marks.

"Bloch-Sulzberger Syndrome? That's rare, even rarer in males," she told House who was already making his exit.

"I know. That's why you need to do a gene marker and find NEMO. When you don't find him you can confirm IP."

"IP is X-linked. He only has one X-chromosome, without the NEMO gene he wouldn't have been born."

"That's why you should check both his X's."

She opened her mouth to say he was an idiot since only women have two sets of X chromosomes but then she recalled. "Klinefleter. He has a 47,XXY chromosomal constitution." She looked back at the little boy who hadn't understood anything past Finding Nemo. "And one of his X's is missing the NEMO gene."

"Explains everything; the eye problems," he gestured to the thick glasses sitting on the table, "the cavities, the developmental problems, the seizures…"

"And acute mylogenous leukemia is often found with IP."

"Fill Mom in and get a better history." He left the room.

"We should get an MRI of his kidneys too," Cameron said after him, recalling that tumours in the kidney may also present with IP.

"Go nuts!"

"Where are you going?"

He didn't respond. As much as she wanted to chase after him she knew she had to attend to the patient and his mother who was looking pretty scared after all that Doc-speak. She smiled reassuringly at her. IP wasn't life threatening. Its diagnosis just meant they knew what to expect and could provide better supportive therapy. The survival rate for this type of blood cancer was also pretty good.

"Elliot's going to be okay."

H 

"House, where are you?" Wilson's voice asked evenly over the phone. Despite the tone House knew the man was probably trying to fight off one hell of a headache and loosing.

"At the airport, about to board a plane to Nebraska."

Silence.

"Nebraska. You're kidding right?"

"I never kid." He handed the attendant his boarding pass.

"You just thought you'd take a vacation?"

"Sure."

Wilson shook his head and gave Cuddy who was listening in on his half of the conversation a helpless look. "Do what you have to do. Then come back. Okay?"

House wasn't sure if Wilson just thought he was crazy or if he really hoped that he might just find what he was looking for. Maybe they were both just was crazy enough to hope.

"Yeah, okay." He was going to hang up but then… "Wilson! How does a dead man fall off the face of the earth?"

"…I suppose he would roll…"

H 

Omaha, Nebraska. Population of about 400,000 and home of the Omaha Bolt, Nut and Screw Building. House assumed the building wasn't as lame as it sounded otherwise they wouldn't have named it a landmark. The brochure told him it was also the home of the Omaha Royals, the Heartland of America Park, and some breath-taking sunsets. He didn't care for any of it and he chucked the brochure in the nearest garbage once he disembarked. All he needed to find was the Saint Joseph Medical Centre because somebody with a gunshot wound to the chest would need specialized care. Intensivist taking care of intensivist. That was almost funny.

The city was what he expected, clean, quiet, boring. Not that Princeton was a hub of major entertainment since it was mostly just the university crowd. He hailed a cab and ordered it to take him to the medical centre. The driver, being the friendly guy that he was, tried to strike up a conversation and Greg ignored him. The bearded driver gave the thin older man a glare through his rear-view mirror but didn't speak again. The rest of the forty minute ride from the Omaha Eppley Airfield to the hospital was made in silence. The physician paid the fair leaving a moderate tip for the driver and they parted ways without further comment.

Once the cab was out of his sight it was out of his mind, replaced with the churning, unsettling and exciting prospect of finding what he was looking for; his supposedly dead fellow. House entered the hospital, its sterile smell like so many other hospitals. Somewhere in this maze of rooms and corridors, mixed into the throngs of patients, nurses, doctors and hospital staff, was his Aussie. This was where his search had led him. All the clues fit together with this theory, and the final answer said that it was Saint Joseph, in Omaha, with the Witness Protection Program.

He made it to the Critical Care floor without problem. Security in hospitals wasn't nearly as tight as people liked to think it was, and nobody ever paid attention to the old guy with the cane.

He went straight to the nurse's station from the elevator. Now was the time to put his theory to the test.

"Excuse me," he began in his most charming and somewhat befuddled voice. The slightly podgy woman her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail smiled up at him. "I was hoping you could help me."

"Sure. What can I do for you?" Her cheerful voice seemed somewhat out of place to the disguised grump that faced her. He hoped to take advantage of her good cheer and sympathetic heart. He limped to the side entrance to the desk and the nurse's area behind it to give the woman a clear view of his cane.

"I'm looking for a friend of mine. The information I got was kind of sketchy. He has a chest wound. They said he was shot but…I just want to make sure he's okay."

"Oh, of course. What's his name?"

House smiled gratefully at her and flicked his eyes up at the whiteboard mounted on the wall that marked the patients and which nurse was attending them. Doctor's might make the decisions but nurses were the many cogs that ran the medical system, so he would get to Chase through them.

"Randall Collins," was the name he quickly picked from the list. All his searching said that most people kept their initials when the entered the protection program. "Mister Collins."

The nurse led him down the corridor to a room with walls. It was strange being in a hospital that didn't have glass everywhere. PPTH had a much more open feel, though privacy was often lacking. He followed the woman in the scrub bottoms and flower patterned top into the room. There were two patients in there, separated with a small curtain hanging from the ceiling. The one nearest the door was a middle-eastern woman. She looked tired and bored. Her eyes slid slowly from the ceiling to House, managing to catch his eyes just before the curtain blocked their view of each other.

"Here he is. He's doing better. People just have to be more careful when they're hunting," she cheerfully admonished. "You can stay for a few minutes but he needs his rest."

House nodded and the she left with a gentle pat on his arm as she passed. House waited until she was gone before examining Mr. Collins. He had the oxygen tubes up his nose and wires from the electrodes stuck to his chest to monitor his heart rhythm. It was strong and steady. Barring any complications, Collins would be fine.

House leaned against the wall and stared at the man lying asleep in front of him. He reached into his pocket and popped the cap off his little plastic bottle to retrieve one of the white pills. He flicked the pill into the air and deftly caught it in his mouth. After swallowing the tablet he sighed and walked close enough to look down at the patient.

"You, Mr. Collins, are going to live a long life –so long as you shot walking into bullets." He dropped his cane so that the rubber tip at the bottom contacted the floor with a tap. "Too bad you're not who I was looking for." The dark haired man with tanned skin wasn't awake to respond. House walked away, leaving the stranger and the other woman alone.

"Is everything okay?" the nurse that had directed him to the room of Mr. Collins asked when she saw House exit looking somewhat uneasy.

"I'm fine." He didn't even look at the woman when he responded, or when he walked away. The grip on his cane was tight, his gait more jagged and uneven than usual. This was it. His theory had been wrong. Chase was gone, either dead or hidden so well, so quickly that House couldn't find him. Maybe, it was time he gave up. He'd lost again, lost Chase, and Chase had lost most of all.

House stopped in the middle of the corridor. He'd already the passed the bank of elevators. He didn't really know where he was going. All he knew was that he had to walk, had to get away, clear his head. He rubbed his eyes with his left hand, trying to get his thoughts together. Suddenly his cane was knocked from his hand.

"Sorry."

House looked down to see a man in a wheelchair.

"I don't quite have the hang of this thing yet." His legs looked weak and thin even hidden by his sweatpants. Looks like the poor guy had some sort of muscular dystrophy.

"Don't worry about it."

The man gave him an apologetic smile and wheeled himself off struggling to control the trajectory of the device that was supposed to make his life easier. House watched him go, wondering briefly at the patient history but eventually the allure of that mystery dissipated and he was bereft again. He sighed silently letting his shoulders slump as he collected the energy to limp over to the doorway where his cane had skid.

With a gait that was even painful to watch, he went to retrieve his third leg. He was reaching down to pick up the piece of wood when he froze, his entire body tense with disbelief and shock.

H 

"What is it?" Cuddy asked as an excited and astounded Dr. Wilson barged in to her office. She was in a meeting with another department head.

Wilson didn't even apologize for the interruption. He walked past the two who were seated on the couch examining a set of documents, and went to her computer.

"I told him the camera-phone was a juvenile toy," Wilson said absently as he logged in to his email account and opened a message.

"Sounds like something House would like," she said, exasperated that even with her most problematic physician away, she couldn't get any peace.

"He told me it would come in handy one day." He stepped away from the computer and gestured to the image in the window he'd opened. "He was thinking more along the lines of blackmail material but…but this…this…"

Cuddy got up to see what had Wilson stammering like an idiot. The image left her speechless as well.

It was a fairly close up shot, House smiling with his face near to an unconscious or sleeping Robert Chase. Judging from the odd angle and the off-center set of the picture House took it himself.

"He was right," Cuddy said in amazement. "Chase is alive."

H 

**End Chapter 14**

I thought about leaving this chapter at the part where they all thought Chase was dead, but I thought it was too short a chapter. Then I was revising and a few pages were added making this chapter longer than expected but I didn't want to take anything out. Anyway, just a little more to go. Thanks for sticking with the story:)

Next chapter probably out Thursday. I need to do some major revisions so it's going to take a little longer than usual. I think there are only two chapters left. I think.

Sagga…


	16. Chapter 15

Warning(s): Language.

**Chapter 15**

There were voices arguing over him. They were loud and his chest was hurting. He just wanted to sleep but they wouldn't be quiet. He tried to turn to find a place where their voices wouldn't reach him. His attempt only brought discomfort and a weak moan slipped out.

"Chase?"

He knew that voice.

"Chase, open your eyes."

Too tired, he thought but couldn't say. He was drained mentally, emotionally, physically, completely. He couldn't do anything but lie there and wait for something to make sense.

"Would you let him rest? He lost a lot of blood and suffered a great deal of trauma!"

"Are you a doctor, Agent Chamberlain? So, why don't you shut up?"

"Do you have any idea what you've done? You've compromised his relocation! We'll have to move him again!"

"Good! You can move him back to New Jersey!"

"I know you're not an idiot, so why are you doing this? He's in danger there."

"He's only in danger if he's agreed to testify in a trial. Yarrow is dead so he can't testify against him and you have his goons. Use them. Put them in the witness protection program."

Chamberlain crossed her arms and shook her head while looking at the pattern on the floor at the far side of the room. "You don't understand. He's been on the inside, close to someone who was near the top. He was privy to a great deal of information that we could use to put a lot of bad people away."

"You think so? He was a cellmate at best, and a fuck-toy at worst. He doesn't know anything that you can't get from someone else."

"You don't know that."

"Neither do you!" He stopped speaking when Chase moved minutely and moaned again. When the young man settled House spoke in a quieter tone. "As far as anybody knows, he only has information on a guy who's already dead. Hiding him out in the middle of nowhere, makes it look like he has information, and makes him a bigger target than he probably is."

"He can help our case."

"You can make your case without him if you try hard enough. He was a pawn. The king is down, raid his castle. Or," he looked down at the peaceful man, his waxen complexion and shallow breathing, "you can ruin his life."

H 

"You never listen."

At the sound of the familiar voice and accent, House quickly raise his tired head from where he had been resting it against the handle of his cane. "You look better today."

Chase swallowed and put a great deal of effort into making himself heard and understood. "I told you to stop."

The weak, raspy voice made House cringe internally. "You're not my boss" was his reply. "And what made you think I would be doing anything that I needed to be stopped from doing?"

"You're self-destructive," Chase replied softly but with conviction and surety that House guessed the younger man had garnered from living with a self-destructive parent. "But I wasn't sure. It was just a precaution." Chase stared up at the ceiling, feeling detached. He remembered what he'd done, why he'd done it, but at present time it lacked emotional content.

"Well, at least you cared enough to try," House said to the floor. He raised his eyes after a few seconds to see Chase's gaze on him. "I thought I wasn't worth loving."

"I didn't say that."

"Yes, you did. But I know you didn't mean it. I can read you like a book," House said confidently.

"Really?"

He didn't mention that at the moment he was Chase-illiterate since there was nothing on the other man's face to be noted.

House shrugged briefly and looked away.

"Love me."

"What?"

"You can't love someone who doesn't want to be loved, right?" Greg shifted his stare to his young fellow. "So, I'm asking." He couldn't say it again. This already made twice. This was the last chance. He could just as easily walk away and pretend nothing had happened. He was good at pushing this type of emotional junk into the back of his closet.

His eyes shifted downwards while he waited for a response, hoping his gamble would pay off. His eyes low, shifting to various objects but not seeing them, he tried to brace himself should the response not be in his favour. Already he was pretending the rejection didn't matter. Already there was a sharp retort forming in his mind.

A tentative hand touched the one he had resting on the top of his cane, just a foot from the edge of the bed. He slowly met Chase's eyes.

"I'm not very good at this sort of stuff," the blonde warned. He was hesitant to label whatever had happened between them so he didn't.

House didn't seem to mind. He understood what was being said. "I bet I'm worse."

The comment brought a smile to the handsome, though pale, face and House felt something ease in him. For a moment he felt a little lighter, less broken, even with the returned burden of his disability.

The smile faded though. "I…I don't have anything...t-to give you."

House dropped his gaze to the hand that was resting on his. He let go of the cane, letting gravity take it and turned his hand, palm up, to hold Chase's in his. He knew what the Chase was trying to get at. He was well acquainted to feeling inadequate, feeling like he had nothing to offer. He didn't have anything to give Stacy so he let her go. He hadn't gained anything in the past few months to give to Chase either, so what did he have?

Chase could hear the voice of the prison guard, Theriault, in his ear. That meeting in his drab, little office so long ago was now at the forefront of his thoughts. His splintered mind heard and fell in to the truth of that statement, that warning. He felt compelled to give the same one to House, before he took a risk on him, and later regretted it.

"The pieces that are left…there's nothing…they aren't enough to give to someone." The words tumbled in a broken mess from Chase's lips.

"Not even me?"

"Especially." He tried to pull his hand away but House held on tighter.

"I hope you don't always underestimate yourself like this."

Rob turned his head away. The he could feel his heart racing, and breathing burned. His injuries and his general weakness didn't leave him ready for this confrontation. He just wanted to fade away. The motion of a thumb stroking back and forth over the back of his hand, eventually soothed him into a sense of security that he'd forgotten. He lingered for a little while, and then descended into sleep.

When he was sure Chase was asleep House relaxed from his rigid pose. Tilting forward in his chair, he lightly pressed his lips to the back of Chase's hands, then briefly touched his forehead to the spot. He didn't know why he felt he needed to do that, an act of such reverence.

He was just thankful, for the first time in a long time. Even with the pain in his leg, with his obvious physical and interpersonal deficiencies he found someone that made him feel less empty, less doomed for misery. He'd found…hope. He'd found hope in Rob Chase, who had now completely lost his.

He was going to hold on this time.

H 

"Do you cry?"

James held the fork, laden with noodles, a few inches over his plate, trying to figure out what exactly his friend meant. "Are you serious? Do want an honest answer or the standard male response of: 'Of course not. Tears are for sissies'?"

"So you do cry. Just making sure I hadn't missed the bus on this one." Greg took a bite of his Rueben sandwich and stared moodily out the window of his office where he and his oncologist buddy were eating a very late lunch. It was actually well into dinner-time but they'd both been busy with sick people today.

"Why so curious about crying?"

"I'm curious about what it would take to make Chase do it."

The forkful of pasta dropped to the Tupperware container. "Are you kidding me? It was your idea to have him stay with you! You've only had him there for a little over a week and you're already trying to find a way to kick him out? Try those juvenile pranks you pulled on me. I don't think he'd put up with that."

"Are you kidding me? He'd probably pull ten pranks, ten-times worse on me, in the short distance from the bed to the washroom. He only left college a few years ago. I'm sure he's got a whole slew of nasty tricks in his little mind that I've never even heard of. And anyway, I'm not trying to kick him out."

"Then why-"

"He doesn't cry."

"I wouldn't cry in front of you either."

"No. He hasn't cried at all. Nothing –no empty boxes of Kleenex, no tissues in the garbage, no red eyes. He's…"

"…you've been digging through your garbage?" Greg gave him a look and so the younger doctor spoke again. "Maybe he's just okay. Maybe he cries in the shower."

"Is that were you do it? I didn't think you'd have enough time between washing your hair and mastur- Oww!" House reached down the rub the spot on his lower leg that Wilson's foot had just collided with. "All I'm saying is that he's not going to get past this if he doesn't face it."

James ignored the blue glare and put forth his two cents. "You can't force him to get better. He has to work through it on his own first."

"Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery."

James was astounded by the eloquence of the statement. It was so simple. It was very unlike House.

"Got it from the '_Goblet of Fire_'," Greg informed his impressed friend and watched with a smirk the expression being replaced with exasperation.

"You're getting tips for dealing with a traumatized individual, from a children's book?"

"Millions of the young and young-at-heart can't be wrong." Greg defended without any real conviction. He looked down at his sandwich and reluctantly admitted: "I just want him to get better."

They were both silent for several seconds. Everyone wanted him to get better. After House, eventually, brought him back to New Jersey, the FBI grumbling all the way, Chase had come back to work after nine days of recovery under the care of Greg House. He'd spent most of the time sleeping and when he was awake he was quiet. House hadn't pushed.

Wilson and Cameron visited. Foreman came over twice, and Cuddy once too. There were only two weeks left in Chase's fellowship with House and though he had more than ample reason not to go back, Cuddy convinced him to come back and finish, to be the first fellow to complete a tour with the difficult Dr. House. He'd agreed reluctantly. After she'd left House commented that Cameron probably would have liked to have that record. Chase had smiled at that and when the smile eventually went away House had felt something heavy settle back over his shoulders.

Sitting there, eating a late midday-meal with his best-friend House admitted to himself that he was worried –very worried. Because although Chase was healing from the physical side of his recent traumas they were still loosing him. He was slowly, silently falling away, leaving just an empty body behind. Not even his likeness on the television news garnered more than a shrug in reaction. The story of his wrongful arrest and incarceration had finally made headlines. Nobody other than the few doctors from PPTH knew where Chase was, so he was always announced as "unavailable for comment". What little was known of Montrose was aired in conjunction with the story, as was the growing frenzy of arrests made by the FBI.

With Yarrow's organization now cracked open the federal law enforcers were having a field day. Criminal after criminal was hoping to cut a deal in order to get a cushier sentence. Chase's haphazard plot against his rapist and torturer had culminated in all this, not that the FBI was giving him the credit. Chase didn't want it and it was better that he not be involved, lest someone try to hurt him again.

So when the news programs came on and the story was one related to mob arrests, they changed the channel. Sometimes House watched a little of it, not only due to curiosity, but also to see if it would pull a reaction from his indifferent guest. It didn't. Nothing seemed to reach him.

"I need him to…he needs to…"

"He needs to be honest with himself. He can't delude himself or push this away and pretend it doesn't matter, that it doesn't mean anything, because eventually nothing will mean anything to him." Wilson raised wary and guilty eyes up to House, and then lowered them, finishing with, "he'll end up like you."

James stared sadly at his meal, appetite fleeing him under the scorch of Greg's stare. He'd tried to change Greg, tried to make him more hopefully, less miserable and misanthropic. He'd tried tricking him, challenging him, and in the end, they even tried healing him. Nothing stuck except Chase. He was the only one for whom House put aside his own issues and was willing to change himself, just a little, so that he wouldn't scare away the young man who'd resonated with him.

Saving Chase could mean saving House. Unfortunately Wilson didn't know how to do that either.

House thought that he might. He was most honest with himself when he sat at his piano. The sounds –at times soothing and at others jarring and discordant –were musical manifestations of some of his deepest thoughts. Perhaps that's why in the evenings when he didn't know what to say to Chase, he wouldn't say anything. Instead he'd sit at the piano and play whatever came to mind. Chase didn't interrupt, didn't speak. Sometimes he'd fill in the crossword from that day's newspaper, going to the pianist side at the end, when there might be one or two words he just couldn't figure out.

There, the music would break, and Greg would do what he could to fill in the last empty squares, not always successfully. Rob would take back the puzzle and stare with little interest at the final answers. He wouldn't check them in the next day's paper, seemingly content with their efforts.

Greg would snake his arm around the trim waist, silently measuring it and gauging whether the younger man was eating enough. He'd turn his head to lightly press against the taut belly, sometimes laying a secret kiss through the shirt that covered the physical scars of abuse and recovery. Rob would lean down, coax the older man's head back and kiss him, sometimes softly, sometimes with a passion that left his groin tingling, but always there was something disconcerting in it. It was always as though he was saying good-bye, or trying to find in the embrace what he'd lost and hoped Greg had found.

Their lips would separate and Rob would go back to the couch. In his mind's eye Greg could see him walking away, fading into a setting sun, never to come back. It made his throat tighten and his stomach knot. The last time he'd thought he'd permanently lost Chase, he hadn't handled it well. He didn't know if he could deal with loosing him after investing, emotionally, even more than had had before. Each spectacular and terrible event forced House to admit whatever he might have been holding back. His shooting, Chase's poisoning, Chase incarceration and lastly the shooting at the café; after all that, he wasn't going to keep lying to himself. He wanted Chase. He wanted Chase to get better. He just didn't know how to make it happen.

He would go back to his outlet and the piano would be sad.

"I'm going now." The voice put to rest the weary, contemplative silence. House and Wilson turned to see Dr. Chase standing at the entrance to the office. He'd already collected his bag and jacket. Neither man had noticed the movement in the other room. "You coming?"

House shook his head. "No, I've got to finish up some stuff."

"Your sandwich?" Chase asked with a slightly raised eyebrow.

"Among other things," House responded.

A pale smile turned Chase's lips. "Okay. I'll see you later. 'Night Dr. Wilson."

"You okay to drive?" House asked hurriedly, concern sounding like suspicion the way it often did when it came from him. Chase was still a little under the weather. He'd lost some weight during his hospital stay in Omaha. Hospital food just never seemed satisfying. He also hadn't had much of an appetite to begin with. That compiled with the injuries and weakness only made the prospect of forcing down a meal less than appetising. They also discovered that Rob had a minor morphine allergy, but a more severe allergy to its derivative, codeine –which meant no Vicodin for him. The morphine they gave him for the pain made him a bit nauseous as well, and took away the little impetus that was left to eat. House had watched unabashedly as Rob pushed the food around his plate. On occasion Greg bullied him in to eating something and on the occasions when he went too far, he'd receive flying food for his effort. It didn't deter him for long.

Since they'd been back Chase had been eating more, sometimes bullied by his new roommate, sometimes by his roommate's best friend, sometimes not. He was slowly regaining strength. His pulmonary function test indicated that the trauma of both the bullet and the surgery were healing. Chase's cardiologist was also happy with the images of the recovering organ, and put Chase well on the road to complete health. The scar on his chest from bullet wound continued to heal. As did the larger exit wound on his back and the long scar from the invasive surgery required to save him. The achy constrictive sensations around his chest that flared up on occasion almost had him reaching for the pain killer prescribed to him, but most of the time he held off, the memory of addiction and what it had done to his mother staying his hand.

Those flare ups were less and less now, and hopefully one day soon the physical pain of this terrible event would be gone. It was the emotional fardels that seemed to be getting heavier.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Chase informed both of them. He gave them another faint smile and he left. Wilson glanced at House, brown and blue eyes meeting briefly to convey mutual understanding and concern.

"What are you going to do?" While James wasn't expecting a quick fix he wasn't against a jump start. Chase's smiles used to reach his eyes and, as that last exchange proved, things had only gotten worse over the past little while. Something had to give.

"If he's so much like me then he has his own musical outlet."

"He already has his guitar." They'd picked up a few things from Chase's apartment and Chase had chosen to take his guitar with them. He'd claimed so that he'd have something to do between the sleeping and eating. The last time Wilson had heard Chase play was after he'd been released from prison. He assumed that any concerts since then had been for Greg's ears only.

"Not that one. He has another string instrument." Greg couldn't forget the violin music he'd found mixed into the guitar pieces. A careless oversight, yet as time went on that piece of music, the worn and folded corners, the smudges and frayed fibres from marks added by pencil and later erased, the slightly yellowish tinge to the pages –it was old and important. House didn't know why but he would find out, even if he had to pull it out of a kicking and screaming Aussie.

Tonight he'd go to Chase's apartment, dig through the belongings that weren't his and find the well-used, but still well-cared for case, and the lovely wooden violin hidden inside. He'd return home, his somewhat ill-gotten prize held by its handle in his left hand. When he opened the door to his apartment, expecting to find Robert lounging quietly on his couch, watching TV and playing with Steve, he found Chase standing and talking with…

"Dad? What are you doing here?"

John House, a tall man like his son but with a thicker build, smiled briefly at his only child who didn't look entirely pleased to see him. "Just came to say 'hi'. Your mother's away with some friends so I decided to stop by." He looked back to the young blonde haired man, trailing his eyes up and down him trying to figure out what was going on here.

"You should have called first. What if I wasn't here?"

"You're always here. And if you weren't, Atlantic City isn't too far away."

"I hear Trump Palace has loose slots. You should check it out," House didn't close the door. He stepped away from it leaving a clear path out for his father who got the hint but didn't take it.

"I just got here. Dr. Chase and I were just talking about you."

"There's nothing he can tell you that you don't already know," the younger House said. The only things Chase knew weren't the type of things you shared with the parent of the guy you were sleeping with, even if lately all they'd been doing was sleeping together in the completely literal and mostly platonic sense.

"What are you doing with that?" Chase asked when he noticed what House was carrying.

"Uh…surprise?"

Chase took the case. He ran his fingers over the familiar casing. "…thanks." He set it down in the corner of the couch.

"A violin?" John House asked in an authoritative voice. Chase glanced between the two men before nodding. "That guitar must be yours too. You have a pretty good voice."

He'd heard the knock on the door when he'd been in the middle of one of hid favourite songs. It was more than a little embarrassing to be caught singing Firefall's "You Are the Woman". The upbeat song made feel a little lighter but that feeling was quickly replaced with apprehension when he realized who was at the door and that he'd been heard. Chase didn't know how to respond to the compliment. He smiled politely.

House was cringing. Chase was probably never going to sing again after this. The only times Greg had ever heard him was that one time so many months ago at that bar and more recently on the days when Chase came back first and proceeded to amuse himself with a song or two. At first Chase had continued to play and sing when House came in even if just to prove that he wasn't intimidated by the older man's presence but as of late Chase only sang when he was alone –or when he thought he was alone. Knowing the tune would end the moment he opened the door Greg had taken to sitting outside the door of his place and listening there.

Right now though, he had more pressing matters than being serenaded. How was he supposed to explain Chase's presence here to his ex-marine father? He didn't even entertain the notion that his father would be okay with him and Chase together. Then again, when had John ever approved of what he'd done?

"Rob, would you excuse us?" The civility didn't mask the strain in his tone. Chase gave a short nod, donned his shoes and jacket and made his exit. He was reluctant to let Chase out of his sight. There was alingering fear in the back of his mind that said somebody still wanted to hurt the Aussie, and Rob's own lack of concern regarding any danger he might still be in only heightened Greg's anxiety.

Greg guided the door closed with is left hand. Not that it needed the help. It was just something to stall the conversation that was about to come. He turned back to his father, head high, eyes challenging, expecting.

Cautiously, John spoke. "He's…not your son, is he?"

Greg rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Well, hadn't this started well? Hopefully it could only go up from there.

"No, Dad, he's not my son. He's a friend. He's been in some trouble recently. I'm just helping him out."

John sat himself down on the leather couch, apparently not leaving anytime soon. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you helping him out? It's just not very you –unless his trouble is directly or indirectly your fault."

Greg flopped down at the other end of the couch next to the violin case. He ran his fingers over it. "It's complicated."

"When isn't it? I thought your leg was better," John said as he eyed the cane in his son's hand.

"I'm faking to keep my parking space."

"Greg."

He hated that one word admonishment –hated even more that it still worked. "The pain is back. The treatment didn't take completely and there was a bit of an incident."

"Oh. Sorry," John said belatedly.

Greg shrugged, eyes staring forward. "It was fun while it lasted," he said practically. John gave him a look. Greg felt it but didn't return it. "What?"

Shaking his head the elder of the House men responded. "Nothing. I see that you're busy with another guest so I'll head to the coast." He slapped his thighs to punctuate his statement. That's where he had assumed he'd stay and had made plans. He was meeting some old friends there the next day and had decided a short stop to see his son was in order, even if it wasn't welcomed. "Maybe I'll stop by on my way back," John teased. He gave Greg a pat on the knee and then stood, his old joints protesting mildly. "Take care. And call once in a while would you." At Greg's nod John went for the door. He turned the knob and pulled while his mind turned over his son and the situation in his head. Before he stepped across the threshold he turned his head to his child. "Greg... is he…" he trailed off thinking better of it. "I'll see you later."

Greg was still seated but turned to watch his father go. "Bye." He didn't know what that strange little smile or the slight shake of his father's head meant but he'd never completely understood his parents. He'd probably over analyzed them, making them more simple or overly-complicated than they really were. Eventually he'd found a way around that. He got his own life and they were only supporting characters. He loved them he was just tired of disappointing them.

His father had gotten an unenthusiastic, somewhat nerdy son, who'd taken no interest in following in his military footsteps. And his mother had gotten a rambunctious, difficult little boy, who'd been unable to settle down and give her the grandchildren he knew she wanted. Most of all, he'd dragged them through his misery. The more he tried to push them away, from him and his wretchedness, the worse he ended up making them feel. But the closer they were, the more they knew that he wasn't happy. Another lovely lose-lose situation care of Gregory Jonathan House.

Meanwhile just on the other side of the door John Alexander House was thinking to himself that his son seemed less grumpy than usual –even with the return of the leg pain.

H 

"Everything okay?" Rob asked cautiously when he returned some time later. Greg was lying on the couch feet dangling over the end. He didn't respond to the inquiry but the TV continued its noise. "I got Chinese." He'd swung by a small place not too far away on his way back from the cemetery. It was the only place other than the hospital he could think to go. He hadn't been to his apartment at all since he and House had come back from Nebraska and there wasn't much to go back to except numerous bills piling up and messages he hadn't answered. Probably some from Dr. Greenway too, informing him of his HIV and Hep C status. The first test had been negative but for HIV it could take up to or more than a year for a positive individual to test positive.

He set the bag of warm take-out on the coffee table and went the kitchen for utensils. He didn't feel like wrestling his food with chopsticks today. He went back to the living room and as he was putting the extra utensils down and about to open the paper bag with the food he felt a pair of eyes on him. He looked at House who was staring intently at him.

"What?"

Rob thought he was the one who should be asking that question.

"Nothing." He moved to lean over the prostrate man and after searching his gaze he found for a moment he leaned all the way down to kiss him, slowly but with much tongue involvement. When finally he pulled away Rob rested his forehead against the other man's and took a shaky breath. He liked to savour these moments when the world felt like it used to when he could really hear, really taste, really feel. He knew that all too soon the vibrancy would fade away to his greyish world and he wouldn't even notice, not until he was close to House like this again and the colours returned.

He opened his eyes and found the cobalt eyes already recording the details of the moment. He saw the worry, the worry that he'd caused. 'I'm okay,' he wanted to say but the words died somewhere along the way. He couldn't take the worry away and he couldn't let go. Greg House was the last part of his life that made him feel alive, made the hurt go away for a few minutes, and he wasn't strong enough to give that up. He knew he should. Dragging House through all this crap with him would only end in both of them being even more messed-up than they already were.

Chase settled on the edge of the couch, brushing against House's hip since the man was still taking up most of the room. "I'm going to go back to my place tomorrow."

Many seconds passed in which Chase took out the cartons of food stacked on top of each other in the paper bag that read "_Ho-Lee-Chow_" on the side.

"Why?"

Keeping his eyes away from the man whose gaze he could feel burning into him Chase answered. "I have to check my messages, pay my bills…"

"Table in the hall, left drawer," Greg said and reached for the nearest carton.

Robert followed the enigmatic directions and opened said drawer to find a bunch of his bills and banks transaction records that indicated they'd already been paid. Greg paying his electric bill while he'd been "dead" was one thing. That was just a nice, if somewhat deranged, gesture from the very closed off man. However, his utilities were not the only bills that had been paid. The loans from the banks, the debts that he'd been burdened and struggled with for so long that they were practically character traits, were gone –paid in full. He read the details, eyes wide, and a sick feeling settled in his stomach morphing any hunger that had been there before in to an uneasy churning.

"Greg, what the hell is this?" Rob yelled from the hall and stormed back into the living room.

He wasn't sure what to comment on. Chase using his first name or the bill thing. He was concerned that if he brought it up Chase would never use his first name again and he liked the intimacy and the sound of his name in the Australian accent.

"That's what paid bills look like. I know you aren't very familiar with them."

"You had no right to do that! How did you even get a hold of that money?"

"That woman." He gave a vague wave of his hand after he put down the chopsticks. "What's her name…Tabby Grant. That woman has practically adopted you. How do you do that anyway?"

Robert ran a hand through his hair, the feel of the short strands rubbing against his palm rather than the long ones he used to have slipping through his fingers doing nothing to ease his disquiet. "You can't… that money…" He pursed his lips together in frustration, about ready to throw the nearest object out the window.

"You're sitting on top of one hundred and seventy million, plus. You're finally the rich kid that we've been call you for years. It's your money. I figured if I broke the ice-"

"Do you know where that money came from?" Robert interjected.

"I could guess but why don't you tell me?"

Robert hated that. When Greg said or did something and he felt compelled to respond just to let the other man know that he wasn't always right, that he didn't know everything. He wasn't sure if it was a test or a challenge or just a ploy to get information. All he knew was that it worked.

He leaned against the doorjamb to the kitchen. "He took mob money and cleaned it. Funnelled it into other businesses, invested it to get high returns and took a cut for himself. He was doing it for decades and never got caught." Needless to say that made Montrose very valuable. Without him those connections fizzled away as people broke all ties and went their separate ways or found new handlers. Yarrow had wanted those contacts, had killed for them, had Chase framed in the hopes that Montrose would give them up to him. Yes, it was a very lucrative business so long as you weren't all that attached to your soul. "That money…it's from terrible things." He didn't want to think about how much blood figuratively stained those funds.

Neither did Greg. "Well not all the money was directly from crimes. He fronted some legitimates businesses too, right. I figure fifty to seventy percent, max." He still couldn't hold his tongue though. He watched the blonde head shake an expression of disgust on his face. Greg wasn't offended and wasn't sorry. Chase knew who he was. "Would you stop blaming yourself for something you didn't do? I doubt you were even born when Montrose started his mob accounting business."

Chase had been about to go into the kitchen. Just to put some more distance between him and House but that stopped him. "Do you think that matters? He passed it to me! All of it, the money and the sin that came with it!"

"You freaking Catholics…"

Robert rounded on him, his strides quickly crossing the distance so that he could grab his companion by the front of his shirt. "This isn't about my religion! This is about having a sense of responsibility to someone other than your self! How many people has this money hurt?"

"The only person I care about this money hurting is you!" Greg yelled back, eyes just as serious and furious. He was disappointed when the fire in the young man's eyes seeped away to be left with something duller. "You inherited the money. I assume those debts you inherited were your mom's debts and haven't been able to pay them off. Maybe these two things can…cancel each other out." Though all the debts put together didn't even make a dent in the fortune now under the Chase name.

The grip in Greg's shirt slackened and before he knew it he had and armful of tired intensivist resting along his side. He wasn't sure what to do but Rob wasn't expecting him to do anything other than just be there. The sky-blue eyes glanced around in almost a panic, which eased in a few seconds when both of them were comfortably settled, the blond head tucked neatly into the crook of his neck. Rob's free arm was resting casually on Greg's chest. His turmoil easing with the warmth of their embrace. Maybe he could be okay with all these ill-gotten funds. Maybe House was right. He wasn't sure if he should be taking lessons on morality from House, but at the moment his simplistic view made sense, and was the easiest to accept. He was tired of bearing the fault of Montrose's misdeeds, including his business. Still he felt it was up to him to do something, to make amends. He burrowed minutely closer to House and rested, not wanting to think anymore.

Greg relaxed as the close contact became familiar. At night he and Rob usually ended sleeping in close contact with each other no matter how far at opposite ends of the bed they started at. Still, they could blame their unconscious minds for that. This situation was different. This was them choosing to be together. This kind of intimacy, meant that kind of trust.

Greg turned his head just a little. He really did like the smell of Robert's hair though.

"You didn't tell me your dad didn't pay for your education. I figured you would have gone into medicine to get his attention."

Robert sighed into the warm chest. "I did. I was starting my second year when it finally occurred to me that he would never care what I did. He had a new wife, a new family."

"So why did you continue?"

He shrugged weakly eventually saying, "I liked it. I was good at it. Wanted to stay far away from rheumatology though." He felt House laugh and it brought a faint grin to his face too. "I got government assistance from the Higher Education Loan Program. It paid for most of the tuition. It was just the living accommodations and other stuff I had to pay for. But it was worth it." He loved medicine, loved his job. Hopefully, when he felt better, he could go back to loving it the way he used to.

Robert pushed up from the couch, missing the warmth of the other man's body almost immediately. He handed House the carton of food he'd abandoned on the floor next to the couch when the argument had begun. He'd heard the sounds of the man's empty stomach. His was silent.

"Where are you going?" Greg asked. He sat up and grabbed Rob by his pant leg.

"Bed," he answered. It was still very early but he was drained.

"Eat first." House swung his legs off the couch to make room.

"I'm not hungry." He let himself be pulled back down.

Greg handed him an egg roll. "Humour me." Rob took it and nibbled on it while Greg filled himself with greasy fast-Chinese-food. Rob would end up feeding the last bit of the crust to Steve who would be more than happy to have some people-food.

H 

They clinked their plastic cups together in a toast, varying degrees of smiles on the faces all around. They were celebrating an achievement, the first ever in Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital history. Some poor bastard had finished his fellowship under Dr. Gregory House, a diagnostician as well known for his medical prowess, as his poor interpersonal skills and painful lack of tact.

"Never thought this day would come," Greg said bemusedly.

"It takes a very special person to put up with you," Cuddy said between sips of her champagne. She slid her eyes to the tall man leaning against his desk while watching the three younger doctors interacting. "Don't screw this up." She finished the rest of her drink and left, after giving Dr. Chase a final congratulation and House a final look.

She must know, House thought to himself. Cuddy wasn't stupid. So he imagined she was referring to both his professional and personal relationship with Chase. She'd already given him the go-ahead for him to offer Chase a permanent position in the diagnostics department. He planned on asking when he knew for certain that Chase would say yes. Right now there were too many variables that needed to be resolved.

"We're going to O'Sullivan's. Would you like to come?" Cameron asked. House looked past her to see Chase and Foreman putting on their jackets. He shook his head.

"No. I'll see you tomorrow."

She watched him watch Chase for a moment. Eventually she made some decision and exited with the others. Chase hung back for a moment letting the other two get further away. He pushed the glass door open in and stepped halfway in.

"Why aren't you coming?"

House shrugged. "Don't feel like it." The upward inflection on his sentence, made it sounded as though he was asking if that was an acceptable answer. He felt a little twist in his chest at the slightly fallen expression that resulted on Chase's face and he grimaced. "Just go. Have fun. Don't drink too much."

"What about you?"

House pulled up from his slouch and stood straight with the help of his cane. "Wilson owes me." He gestured down the hall where he was sure the other two were waiting. "Go."

Chase hesitated. He did want to go to the bar to say a final farewell to Cameron, Foreman and work at PPTH, but work at PPTH would have been just like work at any other hospital if not for the man in front of him. "All right. I'll see you later."

"Yes, you will. Though I might be a little tipsy by then –y'know, it being Friday and all." The blue eyes that had shifted around the room made their way back to Chase, who gave him an amused, if somewhat forced smile and left.

"So, you're losing one of your ducklings. The flock just won't be the same without him."

"A group of ducks is a paddling, or a skiff, or a team. They're only a "flock" when they're airborne."

"Fine. You ready to get out of here? We can go commiserate the loss of a member of your paddling."

"Celebrate, you mean." House turned off the last light in the office and preceded Wilson out. He fought the urge to look back at the conference room. Already, he knew it didn't look the same.

It only took a beer and a half before Wilson finally got House to drop the bravado. Left in its place was a man who was worried and maybe a little confused. Wilson didn't try to pull his friend out of his funk. He let him rest there, contemplating whatever it was he was contemplating. It was still relatively early in the night when the lock on the front door clicked open, signalling Chase's return.

"Back so soon?" was the greeting he got from House.

Chase looked to Wilson, unsure of what mood he'd stumbled into. He cast his eyes back to the back of House's head. His eyes shifted a littler further away and he saw the older doctor's reflection in the dark picture of the TV, which also meant that House could see him too.

"Got tired," Chase offered. He removed his shoes and jacket and padded cautiously to the side of the couch. He was glad to see that there were only a few empty bottles of beer on the table so neither of the two men was beyond the realm of a slight buzz.

"I'm gonna go-"

"–To bed?" House hastily interjected. "Not likely. The night is young and so are you." Without turning his head or shifting his eyes he reached to the side and slipped a finger through the belt loop on Chase's pants. He pulled him down to the couch to sit between him and Wilson. "Here's your chance."

Chase flit an awkward glance at the oncologist who simply watched from the corner of his eyes as he took a drink from his bottle.

"My chance for what?"

"You're chance to apologize. Wilson's right there. Fire away."

Indignant Chase tried to get away. House still had a hold on his pants and once the young man was half-way up he yanked him back down to have him fall into Wilson.

Chase fell in a sprawl over the oncologist, his back pressed against the man and his head coming to rest just between the oncologist's neck and shoulder.

"What do you want me to say? That I screwed up? That I was scared and I made a mistake?" he asked in a yell. He was still leaning against Wilson. The odd angle and placement of his body made getting enough leverage to get up difficult. He almost had it when a hand slipped between him and the back of the couch and around to his front preventing him from rising.

"Robert," a calm voice from just behind his ear breathed.

"…I…I'm sorry." He nearly choked trying to swallow. "I..." How was he supposed to explain that he hadn't expected to end up here? That he figured he'd either be dead or in the custody of the US Marshalls for protection. He'd been too afraid and too unsure to say good-bye, so he'd tried instead to put space between himself and those he thought might come looking for him, in he hopes that when he went, no one would miss him. He liked to think that's what his father had tried to do for him, when he had been dying of lung cancer and hadn't told him. Maybe his attempt at sparing two of the people he'd come to care about had been as misguided as his father's.

"I'm sorry…" For exploiting the uncertainty and envy he'd seen in Wilson's eyes. Sorry for blowing it up and purposely making it stronger. For causing him any ache that he didn't deserve.

Somehow his apology conveyed everything. And given everything that had happened, they could forgive him this mistake.

"It's okay Robert," James mumbled in to the soft fair hair. He'd allowed himself to be manipulated. He'd fallen so easily, and without protest, in to the scenario that Chase had built, that it had taken House and Chase's "death" to bring him out of it.

James knew why he'd acted the way he had, and Robert needed to know too. He closed his eyes and continued the gentle stroking of his thumb over the flexing abs beneath his hand. "I was afraid…of loosing him." He stared over at House with dark eyes, adding his gaze to Chase's.

House looked away. Back to the TV he had muted earlier. He wasn't sure how he ended up with both these two men. He didn't know how the three of them ended up like this; entwined so badly there was little chance at pulling them apart without leaving pieces of themselves on the others. He was lucky. Given all the not so great events in their lives thus far, all three of them were lucky but he, Greg most of all. Because he knew there wasn't a hell of a lot to like about him, and he was too old and set in his ways to change. Yet, sometimes they would look at him and he'd feel less bad. Measuring himself by the company he kept was something he didn't like to do, since he could never seem to measure up on any level other than professionally, and even then it was iffy. Only since he'd been shot, since he'd hallucinated his exchange with his shooter, had all this become important.

When Robert Chase looked at him, smiled at him, at his antics, he felt he could measure up. That feeling pulled him to sit up a little straighter, to breath a little easier, to hope a little more. He'd found this. Wasn't sure what it was yet. Love seemed too trite. He'd found love before. No, he'd found a smidgen of faith, because the prayers he'd been too proud, too narcissistic to say had been answered. He was thankful.

Greg took a deep breathe and looked back at the two men, the older of them with his arm around his…boyfriend. Okay, that sounded weird. Rob had turned his head away, and was looking lethargic and unpleasantly numb. James's hand continued to stroke his mid-drift, silently soothing a deep ache, while his eyes demanded that Greg do something to fix this, otherwise he'd take the fragile man a leave now.

Greg averted his eyes again before speaking in a tone that was so soft and honest, he almost didn't sound like the man they knew. "I can't help you, if you don't want to be helped. Face this. Deal with this. Because I won't watch you do this. If I'm going to lose you, I'd rather you walk out now and not come back. I'm not going to watch you fade away." That said, Greg got up. He didn't look at the expressions that might be on the faces of his two guests, didn't listen for any response. He'd made his statement, given Rob his ultimatum; get better or get out. It was harsh and as he limped to his bedroom he frowned and chastised himself even thought he knew he'd done it for the boy's own good. Chase did well under pressure. Even if he made a mistake, he always managed to hold things together somehow. House needed to bring that out now. He also needed to protect himself. He knew he wouldn't be able to watch Chase fade away and not fade with him. While he was still strong enough, he had to do something. This was all he could think of. He was desperate.

Back in the living room, Wilson had to ask. "Are you sure this is what you want to do?"

Chase nodded at him but kept his head turned away. They were both sitting at the edge of the couch, Chase turned a little in the direction in which House had just fled. His eyes were on the floor near the kitchen and Wilson's were on him. He was wondering what the hell House thought he was doing. This was not the recommended way to help an assault victim. Wilson knew that House rarely did things the recommended way but this wasn't just anybody. This was Chase, and the young man had become important to him. So why was he so quickly pushing him away, forcing him into making a decision he wasn't ready to make?

Wilson closed his eyes for a long second. Chase was welcome to stay at his place, and House was welcome to throw all this away. It wouldn't be the first time he'd watched House do something stupid in a relationship.

In the bedroom, the middle-aged man sat down on the edge of the bed, facing the door and waited. In a dream, in a better version of reality, Rob would come running in and tell House that he was right, and that he was going to get help, accept his help. Of course, in a better world Chase wouldn't have been incarcerated, he wouldn't have been shot, Hilter would have died in utero. Better worlds might exist somewhere but it wasn't here, so Chase didn't coming running. Instead he heard the sound of movements, then he heard his front door open and close.

Silence had never been so foul and heavy before. Greg hadn't realized how tense he was until his shoulders deflated and he hunched over. His right had rubbed at his thigh, feeling the jagged indentation left by the muscle resection. It was just him and his pain again. What a disappointment.

Refusing to linger on the loss or feel heartbroken, Greg undressed. He left on the T-shirt and his boxers and struggled under the covers. At first he lay with his back to the door, facing the window shrouded by the curtains his mother had insisted on. Soon he turned towards the door and the side of the bed that had become Rob's. The light in his living room was still on. Someone might still be there. No moving shadow's interrupted the light and no sounds carried through the quiet corridor. He closed his eyes.

He'd talk to Wilson and Chase tomorrow. Just because he wasn't going to see Chase anymore didn't mean he'd let the man just give up. It just meant he wasn't going to be with him every step of the way. Only now, his eyes beginning to close from exhaustion did Greg realize he'd meant to be there every step. He wanted to make good on that promise, but what was a promise when made to no one?

H 

The sound of music woke House from his unsatisfying, and light doze. Bleary eyes opened to find that the light in the living room was still left on, illuminating the corridor. House sighed and rose from the bed his tired joints and muscles wishing that either of his guests had thought to turn off the light when they left. As he was padding to out of the room, hobbling badly without his cane, Greg recalled that he hadn't put on any music and that the TV was off. So where were the sombre hums of strings coming from?

He arrived and found his answer.

Robert gently pulled the bow across the strings of his instrument, an old friend he'd neglected for quite a long time. As a youth it had been his salvation, and, for the moments that the music could steal his mother away from her drinks and her drugs, it had been her salvation too.

He practiced fairly regularly, brushing up on old favourites and learning new ones, but he didn't play. For him there was a distinction between practicing and really playing. Practicing was just going through the motions, getting through the piece –more of an intellectual exercise. Playing was more of an emotional exercise, and perhaps why he didn't play often.

It wasn't that he wasn't good. He was very good and he knew it. Not every twenty-year old violinist is offered a position in a strings orchestra. It wasn't a first violin offer, but it was still huge, and he still turned it down. Playing was something he rarely did when other eyes could watch. He felt naked, defenceless. It had resulted in a few panic attacks when he was younger, particularly around the time when his mother was slipping more rapidly away near the end and he was barely holding it together. There had been one particularly jarring incident. Possibly feeling bad about the difficult time his son was facing, and his own lack of support for the duration of the tribulation, Rowan had brought Rob to his new home, with his new wife for an early Christmas party and asked Rob to play for them. Reluctantly he had done so, and by the end of the piece he was shaking. The throngs of applause only heightened his unrest and his heart was attempting to keep up with the beat of claps. The boy had dashed from the room and been sick over the toilet for a few minutes. By the time his father had gone to look for him the emetic episode was over, and Rob was bolting for the exit. He didn't say goodbye in his haste to get to her.

The hospital room was as still and quiet as when he'd left, and his mother was still there, sickly, pale and thin. Standing over her, violin case with the instrument cradled within in hand, he told her that he was sorry. The music was only supposed to be theirs. He was her son and she was his mother and they were the only people who really cared about each other in the whole, cold world. Nobody saw him lie she did, and he wasn't supposed to let anybody that close. He wanted to save her but he was just a child, so this was the best he could give her.

After she passed he played less and less for other people. He kept up with the lessons becoming a very accomplished violinist but rarely sharing his talent. By the time he came to the US, his talent was a secret only between him and her. When he did play he played so that she could see him.

Tonight he played so that he could be seen, because there were still some things conveyed more wholly in music than in the few words and expressions delegated to language.

From the junction of the corridor and living room Greg watched, now fully awake. The thin, sweet notes of the instrument filled the room in some moments then receded in others. Greg moved closer watching the talented hands slide down and up the narrow black neck, moving over the strings and with delicate, sure touches, creating beautiful trills and clear notes.

Greg settled on the edge of the couch, both to be close and because his leg couldn't handle standing for so long without the support of his cane. Something in the tone of the music changed. The audience noticed a shuddering breath quake the chest of the artist. He forged on, eyes still closed, knowing he was being watched and willing to, wanting to continue. He descended back in to the current of notes, and returned to the music was depth that only then did House realised had been missing. The notes, the tunes, the rich sound took them for a ride –up, over, around and then gently laid them back to rest, safe and sound where it had begun.

Greg opened his eyes, unsure when he had closed them. The music had ended, the last, soft chord slipping away into the silence, taking with it the barrier between the two men. Blinking away the trance-like state the music and the motions had lulled him into, he stared at Rob. He stared at the half-lidded eyes that were still lost somewhere in the current of melodies, melodies of memories, and memories of loss. Honest, unguarded feelings and pains buried so deep and so well that only the music seemed to unlock the door, were now on display and tears spilled out. He cried silent, simple tears. They streamed in single file down his cheeks, marking their journey with a wet glisten caught by the lighting of the room.

"Rob," Greg whispered.

Recognition and awareness filtered back. The younger man blinked but his eyes remained focused in the direction of the coffee table.

Greg shifted closer and reached to gently brush away one of the wet trails. It was quickly replaced by another. Rob laid his precious violin across his lap and reached up to his own cheek. There was an expression of mild surprise and confusion on his face when his fingers came away wet. Of their own accord, it seemed, the tears continued to come, and slowly, his breathing became more ragged.

As he placed his instrument down on the table, Chase wasn't sure if he'd made a mistake. He didn't like this feeling, this exposure, but this was his best, and probably last chance. It would be a test for both of them. Rob vulnerable and hurt, and Greg taking advantage of that vulnerability to put some aches to rest. Neither was sure if they were strong enough to get through it.

"I don't know what to say," Chase began, then took shaky breath. He didn't have to know. It just bubbled up and he was describing his horrible stay in prison. "The first time…" his voice was choked and raspy, "the first time, in his cell, I fought. I…I was so fucking scared…" His breathing hitched but he carried on. "I stabbed him. Didn't really mean to…but…I did. He…survived, obviously." Rob swallowed something and continued, though he wasn't sure why. House knew what happened. He'd figured it out. He didn't need the details. It was Chase who needed someone to tell. So the tears kept falling and his lips kept moving, recounting the nightmare. "The n-next time, there were two…I-I couldn't…I couldn't fight them. I…I tried. I really did. I tried-"

"It's okay," Greg tried to absolve but the blond man shook his head.

"One held me down –Yarrow…Yarrow…he did it… it hurt…it hurt so much." His deepening accent and mounting distress made a mess of the statement. Greg felt a deep urge to give comfort, and while he was experienced in such, he knew something simple could mean a lot, especially to someone who'd known too many hurtful touches.

With care, Greg moved to touch the alluring face again. His thumb ghosted across the damp cheek, his fingers slid past the delicate shell of the ear to sift through the soft strands of short hair. Rob shivered as the fingers reached the back of his neck.

"There were other times…other inmates...but those were the two times that mattered. The time I lost…and the first time." The tear stained face twisted in an expression of misery and regret. "I stabbed him…" he confessed, his eyes sliding to the side, focusing briefly on the damaged thigh that, again, pained its owner. His face pinched in shame a new set of tears. "…I should have let him die." It was only thing he was sure of at that moment. If he had been less of a coward his tormentor would have been dead long ago, and none these most recent traumas would have happened. His weakness resulted in so much pain and not just his own. "I should have killed him."

"No." It was the anger talking and Greg tried to correct him. "You're not–"

"I should have killed him!" Chase yelled trying to twist away from the touch. Greg didn't let him go and used his other arm to hold him. "I should have ended this!"

Greg had to grasp him by his shoulders to keep him on the couch. He was fairly buzzing with anguish "Listen to me! You didn't do this! This isn't your fault!"

"I couldn't save them! I couldn't…I couldn't save you! He hurt you…" Chase wanted to pull away but the hands on him were stronger than he expected. Crippled or not, House was no slouch. The best defence Chase could mount was grabbing the older man by the collar of his shirt. It didn't give him much leverage, but it kept them apart for as long as he needed them to be.

"That's not your fault!" House had been trying to protect Chase. Chase had been trying to protect him. Both of them had failed, but Chase could only see his failure. "Rob, you didn't do this! I've always been broken! This isn't your fault!"

Chase feebly shook his head. He was drained. His head fell forward hiding his face. "I should have saved them…I wanted to…I'm sorry…I'm so sorry."

Each apology came out a little more slurred, a little less decipherable. The guilt and despair were perfectly clear.

"It's okay, Rob. It's okay." Some people couldn't be saved, others didn't want to be. House thought he was both. He knew now that he wasn't. He would convince Chase of the same thing, share with him the bit of hope he'd inspired, and pray that it would be enough for both of them.

"I should have saved them."

The grip on the well-loved T-shirt slackened and Greg took advantage of the moment to pull Rob close to him. Rob was beyond resisting. He fell heavily in to the welcoming embrace. There was no hesitation when a pair of arms wrapped around him.

Into the short hair Greg told him, "It isn't always up to you." The world could be a really crappy place, and sometimes you can't protect the few people you've included in your little corner of it, not even yourself. It would wear anybody down, but House was there to catch him this time.

Tomorrow House would still be there. He'd promised himself.

**End Chapter 15**

One more chapter to go. Stay tuned. Thanks for reading.

Sagga…


	17. Chapter 16 and Epilogue

A/N: sorry for the delay. My computer was broken for a while. Here are the last parts. Enjoy! Also there is the link to my notes about this story at my livejournal (check my profile for the link). It's nothing important just some comments about writing this story that I had to make because I felt like it.

Chapter Rating: PG-13 (NC-17 version available at my livejournal. The link's at my profile)

Warning(s): Language. Character death.

**Chapter 16**

It had started as an innocent bike ride. Rob had been quiet, maybe a little depressed, maybe a lot depressed. Greg was feeling helpless and antsy. His bike was calling. He'd gone out earlier to get milk for cereal, since neither of them had felt like making anything for lunch. In his haste, not wanting to leave Rob alone in the apartment, Greg had parked his bike out front and he could see it through the window. He loved riding it and he liked it even more when a certain blond, young man sat close behind him, arms wrapped tightly around his chest. Those rides were always the best. And Sunday afternoon was the best time for a ride. Except for church-goers, busy-bodies, and a few unlucky souls that had to work, the roads would be pretty empty. And there was a certain place he wanted like to check out –thus the bike ride.

Perhaps then it didn't start out so innocently. He'd had his ulterior motive; not one that was particularly sinister, but he rarely did something if it didn't have a specific goal, long term or short. He'd bought a second helmet for his…boyfriend. He'd given it to him yesterday, Saturday, the day after his fellowship ended and the day after his long overdue breakdown. That morning had been awkward, even when only the older of the two was the only one awake. While the other slept Greg went out and bought the second helmet. When Rob woke up, groggy, drained, unsure, he was silently handed the new helmet. It was as close to a statement of commitment Greg would ever get to making for the next while. Eventually he would put it in words, not always the most polite choice of words, but Rob would understand. For now the helmet was Greg saying that he was in this for this for the long haul; he'd always have a place on the back of Greg's bike.

Rob had understood and, though he knew how uncomfortable his lover sometimes was with casual physical contact, he hugged him, tight, and silently thanked him.

Chase didn't pay attention to the road. All he could focus on was the warm body pressed along his front. Even when they finally stopped he didn't realize it until he felt a hand on his leg and gentle voice calling him.

"We're here."

Reluctantly, Chase let go. "Where are we?" He looked around and noticed they were at the apex of a semi-circular, interlocking stone driveway. Standing next to them was a grand structure, a beautiful mansion. The face was red brick with white panels highlighting the portico, and dark green shutters around each window. The classic look and feel of the structure was complimented by how it was nestled so snugly in the Princeton flora of tall trees, and rich, flowering shrubs.

"226 Province Line Road," House said looking up at the ivy that had somehow been contained in a straight row along the lower ledge of the second level windows but allowed to grow down.

"It's nice," Chase commented unenthusiastically, much rather preferring to wrap himself around House again, even if only for the expression of surprise it would briefly gleam on the older face. The imagery pulled his lips up in a smile.

House chose that moment to look back at him. His eyes narrowed at the expression. "What?"

"Nothing," Chase said with a shake of his head and a real smile. He looked to the house, his smile fading away, but its brief appearance left them both a little lighter. "Is it yours?" the young man asked in regard to the residence.

"Nope. It's yours." House didn't let Chase even begin to sputter in surprise at him. He reached back and patted his upper thigh, as close to the curve of his buttocks as he could reach. "Come on. Off." Chase followed the order and House dismounted as well, after grabbing his cane from the trusty holder. "I figured you wouldn't have explored any of what you'd been given. That's a little ungrateful."

"You went through the envelope," Chase accused. He couldn't really bring himself to be angry. Now that he knew, he felt he should have expected it. The man had accessed his accounts and paid all his bills, this wasn't any worse.

"Yup. Come."

"I don't have the key."

"I do." He pulled a small ring of four or so keys from his jean pocket and jingled them for a second.

"What if there's a security system?" Chase asked as he watched House unlock the door and press down the little brass lever above the handle.

"How many houses have you busted into? And how many had alarm systems?" It took some force but the door opened with the sound of breaking suction; that loud, sort of smacking sound. There was no sound of an alarm. "Told ya. Besides, mobsters prefer the rapid projectile delivery security systems. I'm betting we'll find a couple if we look in the right places." House and Chase walked in and craned their necks to look around the spacious two story foyer, adorned with marble tiles, a delicate crystal chandelier, and a graceful arch of white steps leading to the upper level. The arched doorway to the right gave a shallow glimpse into the living room, complete with a baby-grand piano stained with a natural wood finish. To their left was and other archway to what looked like a dining room and another room beyond that. "Might take us a while," House ended wishing he'd brought the floor-plan with him.

Not sure whether it was necessary, but still feeling like an intruder, Chase stepped out of his shoes. He walked farther forward and entered an oval shaped room lined with bookshelves on the left and a fireplace opposite. Fire and a library –why did that seem wrong? Chase chuckled to himself and went up to the set of four windows than extended from floor to ceiling, at the far end of the room. Beyond the transparent barrier was a spectacular view of the well manicured and obviously professionally designed landscape.

A grassy terrace lined with a thin metal rail and a set of steps at the far end, led down to the lovely open area centred around the oval pool at the end of the vista. The foliage was tended to an aesthetically pleasing symmetry of tall trees, and well-placed shrub in the long, wide lane of grass leading to the spot of blue in the expanse of green. The careful work in shaping the landscape was done in such a way that, though neat, it still looked somewhat natural. It was the mark of a very good landscaper. The other secrets of the backyard, the perennial garden, the gazebo, the two bedroom cottage tucked away somewhere in the seven acres would be discovered on subsequent trips up here but not today.

"Montrose had a thing for banned books." House's voice pulled him from his study of the backyard. "Ulysses, The CIA and the Cult of Intelligence, On the Duty of Civil Disobedience, The Satanic Verses; here's one for you. The Book Your Church Doesn't Want You To Read."

"Read it."

House turned to Chase who was eying the fireplace and asked, "Before or after seminary?"

"After."

"Was it any good?"

"It was alright. I think you'd like it," Chase said with a drolly. "Can we go now?"

"Soon," he lied and exited the small library. Chase followed him out and to the living room. It was tasteful, with the rug in the centre over the hardwood, the matching furniture set, paintings decorating the off-white walls, and the delicate natural light that seemed to permeate every room. The room itself was large, more like a small ballroom than a living room, but the décor leant itself well to the space, filling it but not to the point of clutter.

"Where's his TV?" House's voice was incredulous.

"He wasn't a big fan of it," Chase answered.

"What a weirdo." He limped to a set of glass doors framed by blue patterned curtains and found a large sunroom. He went in, looked around, and shrugged, unimpressed with what he thought was a useless room. When he went back to the living room he found Chase was missing and he paused. "Chase," he called cautiously.

"Upstairs."

Damn it, Chase knew he had issues with stairs.

"There's a lift on the other side of the entrance hall, near the dining room." Chase did know he had issues with stairs. House followed the directions, taking an extra few seconds to pause and play a short scale on the piano and determining it to be slightly out of tune. Mrs. Grant told him that she'd left the cleaners and gardeners on contract. She'd been taking care of the estate since Montrose had been incarcerated, and had continue to do so when it was given to Chase. That explained why there was no dust but apparently tuners weren't part of the deal.

He found the lift, figured out how to work it, smiled at its convenience as he ascended. Maybe he could convince Chase to spend a weekend or two out here.

He followed the faint sound of papers rustling and discovered Chase in the study past the master bedroom. "So what have you found?"

"A TV." He pointed to the small flat screen device resting on a corner of the desk. "Family secrets, personal demons." The accented voice was dull, sad. House didn't like it but he wasn't going to force it away. He walked over and looked at the object in Chase's hand. It was an old, cracked picture. A boy, and a woman who carried the same haunted expression that Chase sometimes did. House took the image from the slack fingers and flipped it over to read the caption. 'Zinedine and Andrea.'

"Who's Andrea?"

"His mother. Montrose's victim."

House followed his hunch and came to the correct and depressing conclusion. "He raped her."

Chase gave a jerky nod and looked out the window to the mass of trees. "Zid was the result. He and his mother always had a difficult relationship, he didn't understand why but he wanted to know. So she told him."

House recalled what seemed like so long ago, René in the hospital, by the side of the ailing intensivist before they'd figured out what was wrong. He'd mentioned a personal problem that he was taking care of. Not long later he'd killed himself.

"She really hated him. She couldn't love him and she couldn't get rid of him for fear of what Montrose would do," Chase continued. "I met her at the Montrose's funeral. She was glad he was dead. She was glad they were both dead."

"You didn't hit her, did you?" It would have been an ill-advised action but Chase had been and still was prone to uncharacteristic outbursts when things hit a little too close to home.

"No. Almost did but she was hurt. She'd carried, and lived with a reminder of what had happened to her."

"What are those?"

"Letters Montrose kept."

"She wrote him?" Not something most rape victims would do, even if the rapist had fathered her child.

"No, he wrote her. They must have been returned." He dropped them on the desk he'd been digging through. "They aren't the most comforting things in the world." The Montrose of those letters was a monster, and sounded suspiciously like Yarrow, another monster he knew too well. Maybe they all sounded the same.

"I think maybe it's time we put all those fireplaces to good use," the older man suggested.

H 

"Having fun?"

Chase and House looked up from where they sat in front of the living room fireplace, papers and pictures strewn around them. The light from the flames danced a faint pattern of orange hues on their faces and highlighted the red-gold in Chase's hair.

"Finally. Took you long enough pizza-boy," House complained, from the floor.

Wilson shook his head and placed the two boxes of pizza House had ordered him to get on the long, low table in the middle of the room. House had called him about an hour ago, demanding his presence at Chase's new house and that he bring two pizza's as an entry fee. He'd almost declined until he was reminded that he had nothing better to do.

"What are you guys doing?" His eyes roved the lavish but still warm interior of the multi-million dollar home.

"Erasing memories," Chase responded throwing another paper into the contained blaze, and watching with satisfaction as it curled, blackened and burned.

If only it were that easy, Wilson thought. His eyes met House's and he could read the same sentiment mirrored in his friend's thoughts. House and Wilson talked quietly finally feeling like the friends they were to each other, with no subtle undercurrent of unspoken attraction. Wilson knew now that he hadn't lost House to Chase, he'd just gained Chase. And House hadn't really changed, he was just happy; for the first time in quite a while. Maybe that did count as a change in him.

While they chatted, mostly about unimportant things regarding the dwelling, Chase continued to tear pictures and toss them and other pieces of paper on the fire. Although it was an expensive house, with expensive furnishings, hiding costly secrets, it still felt like a home, with all the warmth and history one would expect. He knew his actions here wouldn't change any history, and the recording of history would likely skip over him and these other insignificant people but he was compelled to do this. He was putting an end to the secret that had hurt too many people, set too many things in motion.

"He'll buy it." His ears eventually tuned back in when the majority of his items designated for burning were doing just that.

"He's not your 'Sugar Daddy'."

"You saying I'm not pretty enough?"

Chase laughed quietly but didn't turn around or interrupt the exchange.

"That too."

House made a retort that drew a laugh from the oncologist and Chase remained with his back to them. Their banter and the intricate dance of the flames was calming. He didn't know what it was about fire but it was almost hypnotic. He just wanted to sit and enjoy the peace. Enjoy, what he hoped was the end of this ordeal and put the demons to rest. And maybe make amends for some of the pain that had been caused.

H 

"What's this?"

"Something for Dr. Cuddy."

House looked at the envelope, both sides. It was thin and light. He held it up to the light but it was one of those special envelopes that had the pattern on the inside so that snoopy people couldn't read what was inside.

"How come Cuddy gets gifts and not me?" Chase just gave him a look. "That one was Steve's."

"Steve needs a new game for his PSP?"

"…yes."

Chase shook his head. "Just give it to her."

"Do you know what people do to the bearer of bad news?"

"It's not bad news."

"Then what is it?"

"A donation."

"Oh." The simple answer put an end to his meddling but the silence didn't feel right, so House was about to meddle some more. What else was he supposed to do on a Tuesday night? Also Chase had been in a particularly good mood the last two days and silence was a waste of it. So, he was going to keep talking, possibly to the extent that he ruined his partner's good mood but Chase had other plans. The only warning he got was a somewhat calculating look before Chase straddled him, knees and thighs brushing against the outer sides of his lap and their groins tantalizingly close.

With his hands grasping the back of the couch at either side of his lover's head Chase leaned forward until he could feel each House's breath and practically taste his smirk. "Is this the only way to shut you up?"

"Probably."

Rob wasn't above bribing him with sex, and Greg wasn't above accepting sex as a bribe from him. They were practically made for each other.

Greg moved his hands up the firm thighs and then around to rest on the swell of the enticing rear. He leaned his head up to read the young man's expression and found only the barest hint of uncertainty. When he leaned down to kiss him none of the uncertainty was there. Rob pulled away first, eyes half lidded and breathing heavy. He didn't move too far, leaving Greg to nip at his lower lip.

"Will you give it to Cuddy for me?"

"Why can't you do it yourself?" Greg moved his lips along the smooth jaw and down Rob's neck.

"Please," Rob asked sweetly, knowing that it was probably making Greg's stomach turn because he knew he'd give in.

"Fine, damn it! Now shut up." They went back to busying themselves with the other's lips and tongue.

H 

The next day House put off visiting Cuddy. He carried the envelope around with him, folded in half in his back pocket. It was probably a little crumpled since he'd sat on it more than a couple of times today but Chase hadn't said anything about it needing special attention. Eventually, with no patient, the weird feeling in diagnostics with it missing one member, and the incessant nagging of the part of his mind that didn't want to disappoint Rob by not giving the envelope to Cuddy, he forced himslef to the hospital administrator's office.

"Have you looked at the resumes yet? You have to hire a new fellow. It's a teaching hospital. We have to teach people," Cuddy laid into him the moment she saw him. House just cringed and didn't respond.

"Here."

Cuddy stared at the folded paper, realizing after a second that it was an envelope. "It's not a letter bomb is it?" She took it, still eying her difficult physician.

"Well, open it. I want to know what's in there. He didn't tell me."

"Chase?" Cuddy smirked. House delivered an envelope, without opening it. There were ways to open it and make it look like he hadn't, if he cared not to be caught, but even with the added mystery of Chase not disclosing what was within he resisted. This was probably as close to whipped as House would get. She opened the letter and pulled out the letter inside. When she unfolded it another small paper fell out.

"A cheque? That's it?" House was about to stomp out, the conclusion to his episode of curiosity, and the turmoil over whether he should open the letter, having ended rather anti-climatically.

"Wow," the brunette breathed. That paused House. Cuddy didn't usually sound like that. Nothing he did ever seemed to surprise Cuddy. He angered and annoyed her, but never surprised her. Chase was one up on him.

"Wow what?"

"This has to be the largest, most crumpled donation ever," she said, still in the soft astounded tone.

Eyes narrowed Greg limped over. "How much?"

H 

"Ten-million dollars? And ten more for each of the next four years? Are you nuts?" The yell carried well through the apartment since it wasn't that big, but Chase wasn't far away. Leaning against the wall in the corridor leading to the bedroom and bathroom Chase was startled out of his daydream.

"What?" He turned troubled eyes to the unshaven man who'd just burst in, barely remembering to keep a grip on the cordless phone in his right hand.

House's indignation over the fifty million dollar donation vanished in an instant, replaced with worry. Something was wrong.

"It's nothing," Chase refuted before House even asked.

"Pre-emptive denial is never a good cover," said House. He walked over standing close to Chase, trapping him with his presence against the wall. His heart rate picked up when the young man wouldn't even meet his eyes. Something was really wrong. "Who were you talking to? Don't say nobody."

Rob swallowed with difficulty his eyes shifted to the area past Greg's left arm. "Doctor Greenway."

Greg didn't recognize the name.

"He's from a medical centre in South Brunswick," Rob explained listlessly. "I go there… to get tested."

Greg was going to ask "tested for what"? Thankfully everything clicked before his ineptness forced Rob to repeat what he probably could barely even say. The dawning knowledge had his chin lifting from its perch down near his chest. That same troubled expression was now on his face too as he tried to ask a question. His lips half-formed the beginning of his words but no sound pushed them out.

Rob knew what he wanted to ask, and with difficulty he answered. "Positive for…for HIV."

Oh, please no, Greg begged silently. This couldn't be happening. After everything they'd made it through, a microscopic retrovirus was going to spell his demise in three letters. Greg looked away to one side, then the other, trying to find some sense, some perspective that didn't threaten to swamp him with rage and helplessness.

Rob risked a quick glance up. He had to look quickly away from the barely concealed emotion on the usually controlled face. He felt his own anxiety heighten, and he struggled to stamp it down and think logically. As a doctor he knew quite a bit about HIV and AIDS. He was well aware of the new drugs that leant hope to longer better lives for those infected. He also knew the cold, hard stats, and the difficulties doctors didn't ignore when informing a lay-person but didn't dwell on. Hope was what they tried to emphasize. He couldn't find any of that right now.

"I'm sorry," he whispered and saw from the edge of his vision the older man shaking his head. "I'm sorry." He tried to move back, distance himself from the man he'd just hurt again but the wall was already against him. When he tried to move to the side he was stopped by one arm then another.

"There are drugs," Greg finally said. "You'll be okay. We'll be okay." He'd never been one to put a great deal of faith in words but he tried desperately to believe what he was saying. Some very lucky people had HIV that never turned into AIDS. Maybe Rob could slip into that very slim minority. "It'll be okay."

With Greg's arms wrapped tightly around his back Rob gave in and leaned into the taller man, resting his forehead on the lean chest. He stood there cheerless, because unless he inherited a slew of good luck along with his millions, his life would end early. Now that he'd finally found someone that made the days less long and lonely, his were numbered. He would end up hurting Greg again.

"I'm sorry."

Rob felt the hand resting on his upper back press against him as the fingers curled into a tight fist, catching some of the material of his shirt. The bite of his nails in Greg's palm was dulled by the layer of cotton between, but the bite of loss was a dull ache that he expected to grow deeper and stronger. Greg was too close to pull away and too stubborn to give up. He'd have to face his nightmare. He'd have to watch his young lover fade slowly away. Side-effects of the medication, HIV transitioning to AIDS, the gradually decline his health; it was a process that would take years and he would be there for everyday. As they faced together the impending loss, they both knew, or at least hoped, that what they could share now and until the day Robert Chase was stolen away, would be worth the pain of that most permanent of separations.

"We'll be okay," Greg reiterated through the tightening of his throat and the sting in his eyes.

Rob held him tighter and nodded.

H 

In those next few weeks both Chase and House had to remind themselves that the drugs were actually helping, despite all evidence to the contrary. After doing a repeat test at Princeton General, since Chase refused to have it done at PPTH, and another positive result, a heavy regimen of anti-retrovirals was prescribed. Hopeful that they'd caught the virus early enough to stave off its replication and push back the onset of the acquired immune deficiency syndrome, Chase's new doctor –located in the Princeton area –prescribed the numerous drugs saying that Chase should have been taking them since his release from prison. Disclosing the method of his infection had been difficult but to his credit Chase's physician had not reacted with anything but sympathy and concern. For once House had been grateful for somebody with a good bedside manner.

There was a drawer in the kitchen that had been emptied of knick-knacks in order to hold the numerous medications to combat the HIV and the medications to combat the side effects of the previously mentioned drugs. AZT, DLV, SQV, so many acronyms and a long list of potential side effects to go along with them. Chase came down with big three early in the treatment: nausea, fatigue, diarrhoea. He also came down later with a few choice symptoms: headaches, dizziness, fever, and a spattering of others that showed up better on blood tests but added to the general feeling of malaise.

Unable to do anything but provide meagre but appreciated amounts of comfort through touch and words, House had suffered remotely. Chase suffered directly and remotely; first by the side effects and then, in moments that he was actually clear headed enough to notice, when he saw the expression on House's face. All he could do to help House was to give in when he was trying to help even if he sometimes didn't want it.

Touching had been an issue for days after he found out about his status. He'd kept House at a distance, feeling dirty and knowing that he was a danger in that he could infect House if they weren't careful. It had taken House yelling at him about the difference between careful and ridiculous that he began to relax. Still the nagging thought remained, telling him that he had to keep House safe. He couldn't fail this time.

"You okay?"

Chase nodded and tried to look well, which was a near impossible feat when one was hunched over the toilet bowl fighting the waves of nausea that pushed even dark green bile up from his GI tract.

Standing at the door House shifted, knowing there was nothing he could do directly. The anti-emetic Chase had been given was doing squat.

When finally it ended Chase rinsed out his mouth and stumbled to the bed.

"You didn't eat the soup," House said softly as he pulled the sheets over the worn out man. He'd made the soup before he'd gone to work (where he'd done little but worry and snap at his two remaining fellows who knew nothing of what was going on). He'd hoped that today would be a good day, which they defined as two or fewer vomiting episodes; though by the expert's standards even four episodes was considered mild.

Head resting on the pillow and eyes closed Chase mumbled, "NPO." Non par os; doc-speak for "nothing by mouth"

"You were NPO yesterday," House said sourly. Chase didn't respond, already drifting in an area close enough to sleep that he couldn't be bothered to answer. Sighing Greg ran his fingers through the blond strands that weren't as short as they used to be.

A shy knock at the door forced House away from the bedside. He answered the door to find Wilson and seriously considered giving the man back the extra key so that he could just let himself in.

"How is he?" Wilson took off his jacket and shoes, watching House's back as he disappeared into the kitchen.

"Same as yesterday."

"The side-effects will fade," Wilson informed. He was well versed in drug side-effects considering that cancer drugs, among the most aggressive and varied, had some of the worst side-effects. He went to the kitchen and found House idly stirring what looked to be cold chicken noodle soup.

"Sure they fade, until his body finds another less than pleasant use for some other drug he's taking."

"The drugs are helping," Wilson reminded. He'd said that a lot recently to Chase, House and himself. There was a balance that would be found and then things would look better. Until then Wilson was willing to help even if only by filling their stomachs with something better than House's specialty of canned soup and PB&J.

H 

He was too thin. Chase looked at the body and shook his head. The faint outline of ribs were casting shadows if the light was right. The arms and legs were thinner, weaker. The cheeks of the pale face were slightly hollowed; defining cheekbones, sinking eyes, and taking away the subtle, full contours that had made the man so appealing before. He looked sick even if in these last few days he'd been feeling better.

"Beautiful," came the commentary. When he turned his head to ask House if he wanted to get his eyes checked, his lips were trapped in a kiss. "Back in a few hours," House mumbled as close to Chase as possible. He kissed him again and then exited with the help of his trusty cane.

H 

"You're back earlier than I thought you'd be." It was past ten but when he'd called House at PPTH it had sounded like he might be there all night.

House shrugged out of his jacket and dress-shirt, dropping them on the floor near the entrance of the bedroom. On the bed, book in hand, Chase scowled at the mess but didn't comment.

"Just your typical parasite hitch-hiking across borders in a human host," he commented enigmatically about the case that had been keeping him busy. With it concluded he felt his usual high of being, eventually, right. He would share the case with Chase, as had become their tradition of late, since the younger man was still not quite well enough to go back to work.

"So your guy's going to be okay."

"Yeah, eventually. You okay?"

Chase nodded.

"I need a shower," House announced, dropping the rest of his close on the floor before head to the washroom buck naked. Chase watched him go, enjoying the view. He was going to go back to his book but in the space of a few short seconds he'd lost interest, and now abandoned it for the more intriguing story of House naked in the shower. It was a welcomed surprise for the diagnostician when Chase joined him under the spray a few minutes later. House didn't ask questions. Lips met and hands wandered over wet skin.

This intimacy was a rare. Though not the first time they'd been together since Chase was found to be HIV-positive it was ther first time Chase had initiated it. There was little hesitancy when they kissed now and it was a step towards what would have to count as normal for their relationship from now on.

Wet and exhausted they managed to get out of the shower, get changed and back to bed where, once wrapped comfortable around each other, they drifted to a peaceful sleep.

Hours later Greg could not ignore the need to urinate. Cursing his bladder he reluctantly detangled from the warm form and walked to the washroom. He didn't bother turning on the light. His eyes had adjusted enough to the dark to make out the rim of the bowl. His business taken care of Greg made it back to the bed and enfolded his arms around his bed-mate who looked to be missing the warmth. The slight frown of discomfort eased and Greg smiled, tucking his head close to his lover. He was just beginning to slip back into sleep when he realised something. He'd walked to the washroom! He'd walked with barely a limp to be noticed and only the ache of overexertion bothering the muscle of his right thigh! The blue eyes snapped open and he removed one arm from its position encircling Chase to rub at the injured limb.

It could be that the pain inflicted by Yarrow's callous attack had passed and that the ketamine treatment was still in affect but that there had been a new injury that needed time to heal. There were other explanations, many including the different concentration of brain chemicals floating through his head. Everyone always told him, and he knew it himself, that his body responded physically to his mental state, usually with changes in pain. Perhaps this was what it was like to be happy. Should the lack of pain last until tomorrow, a quick scan of his head would probably lay the mystery to rest, fill in the hole in reality that marked this as a miracle or some unexpected work of forces beyond their current level of understanding.

He embraced Chase again, taking a moment to run his hand through the soft hair, pulling a sigh from the sleeping man. Greg kissed him lightly and then lay down to rest, leaving the mystery of the situation to rest as well. He couldn't explain the lack of pain, but he also couldn't explain how he'd managed to find maybe the one person in this unforgiving and unfair world that he could feel this close to. Yeats wrote: the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Both Greg and Rob would agree that it was also full of other things too.

**End Chapter 16**

**Epilogue**

"Doctor House would you like to say something?"

Say something? What could he tell them when there was so much? There were the arguments and Rob never allowing them to go to sleep without reaching some sort of conclusion. There were the moments of triumph when they saved a life or many, even if their methods got them in trouble. There were days of sadness and worry when one of them was ill. There were the shared laughs, shared friends, shared time. There were the moments of intimacy in both touch and in music, the express of the deepest parts of themselves; the piano for Robert and the violin for Gregory. He'd played when Greg asked even when he hadn't really wanted to. Greg asked him to play in the hopes that one day when the sweet sounds were made there was no accompaniment of tears. And some days there hadn't been. In those moments Rob was free of the hidden pains and the undiscovered or unacknowledged torments that had been his secret burdens for so long. And there had been the love and friendship they shared.

It was so much to tell. What words would do it justice, and who were these people that they deserved to know?

Most of them were benefactors of Rob's generosity, leaders of respective charities. Some where grateful patients, some were old and new friends. Too many were gold digging relatives who had ignored Robert Chase and his troubles until they'd discovered his newfound wealth. If they came here in hopes of some inheritance they'd be disappointed though they shouldn't be surprised. Rob had left everything to Greg though he'd already given away most of his millions. The millions Greg now received were cold comfort after the loss of the man he loved.

From the front row of the moderate crowd Greg House slowly stood to say something.

"Doctor Robert Nicholas Chase was born November nineteenth, nineteen seventy-nine. He died August thirtieth, twenty fifteen. In between, he was a better person than most people knew or gave him credit for. I knew, but I'm not going to stand here and explain why or how now that he's dead. Most of you are too damn late, and you can keep your heart-warming stories to yourselves."

He turned to look down at the casket. He brushed his fingers over the smooth cool varnish. Many who didn't really know much about the two men were surprised when he carefully went to one knee and briefly kissed the wood that now encased his lover and companion of the last many, finally happy, years. He stood and walked away leaning heavily on his cane. When he brought his left hand to his face it was to wipe away tears.

Wilson fell into step next to him. He'd remained at the back of the group of mourners. His sadness had become too much outrage when he noticed the numerous people that Chase didn't even know coming to pay their last respects when 'd given him none during his life. "He would have liked your eulogy."

"I know he did. I told him what I was going to say."

A week ago, in the hospital –PPTH because House said so –Greg told him. Frail, tired, dying, the older man sat in a chair next the bed, touching him, fussing over him, soothing his ailment and unrest with words. He told him how much he loved him, how happy he was to love him, how he was a better person for loving him. He'd confessed, his prayers, and his hopes, and his unanswered miracles. Robert had barely the strength to respond in kind, only managing a simple "I love you, always" and weak pressure with his thin hand to sooth. And when, during a quiet night, he finally slipped away, into what Greg now hoped was eternal peace, he had stopped the attempts at resuscitation before they could begin, knowing that if they managed to bring him back it would be so that he could linger for a few hours, maybe a few days, only to leave again.

The room silent and quiet, and Greg was alone. He leaned over and lightly kissed him one last time. The tragedies that had forced them together had, ultimately, separated them again. Gregory House hunched over the bed, over the warm body of Robert Chase and wept.

**End A World More Full of Weeping**

Sorry. I know some people were probably hoping for a happier ending but I thought this ending fit best.

Thanks for reading this story. It actually turned in to a novel (over 100,000 words). Not sure exactly how it got there, but many kudos to you if you managed to get to the end. It was fun to write and your comments really helped. I'm going to take a break (finish a story in a different fandom that I sort of neglected) then I'll be back with some other stories. At least that's the plan. Ciao! And again, thanks so much for taking the time to read this story!

Sagga…


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